


And So It Goes (And You're the Only One Who Knows)

by deinvati



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Amnesiac Eames, Angst, Angst in the end comments!, Arthur has dubious ex-boyfriends, Canon Compliant, Eames speaks Bosnian, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Limbo, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Arthur, Oblivious Eames, Post-Canon, References to Depression, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Amnesia, all kinds of canon references, and Arthur can fly a plane, but they'll figure it out, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 03:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 61,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6103087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cobb and Saito didn't make it out of limbo.<br/>Arthur tries to deal.<br/>Eames tries to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Is Why My Eyes are Closed

**Author's Note:**

> My first delve into the beauty that is the Inception fandom. Any and all comments welcome!
> 
>  
> 
> The title is not related to the fantastic Kurt Vonnegut, but rather to the illimitable Billy Joel, although they are both near and dear to my heart.

 

 

And So It Goes

 

(And You're the Only One Who Knows)

 

Chapter 1

 

Arthur left the plane feeling numb. He knew he should be moving, so he put his feet down, one in front of the other, self-preservation keeping him in motion. The weight of the PASIV case felt foreign in his hand, a friend turned stranger in a moment of betrayal. He made his way to the baggage carousel and realized he'd watched his bag circle twice before reaching out to claim it.

He was supposed to get on another flight after this, supposed to meet up with...but he just couldn't face another plane ride right now. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing thoughts away, and decided to get a cab to the nearest hotel instead and destroy the mini bar.

As he turned, he heard a familiar British accent ask, “Need a lift, darling?”

Arthur knew his face was granite, he'd felt it harden that way. But at the sight of those familiar broad shoulders and understanding gaze, he felt something crumble inside himself.  He couldn't deal with resisting Eames now too, on top of everything. He knew he shouldn't do this, the team should be splitting up, and his point man sensibilities were screaming at him as he nodded dumbly and slid into the cab Eames held open. He let Eames direct the cabbie, pay the fare, and lead him to a hotel room without hearing a single word that was said. He placed his bag and the PASIV on the far side of the room, then sat, stiffly, on the bed. How often had he fantasized about Eames asking him back to his hotel room after a job? How many times had he longed for Eames’s teasing voice to say, “Darling, you really must loosen up,” and then reach for Arthur's tie?  How many times had Dom warned him about not ending up an old man filled with regret?

It was the thought of Dom that did it. He felt himself sink his head into his hands and squeezed his eyes shut against the flood of hot tears threatening to escape. Distantly he heard the room door open and close, softly, and even though he knew he was alone, he still refused to let them fall. He lay back, grabbing a corner of the comforter and rolling, wrapping it around him the way he hadn't done since he was a kid. Despite the tension in his body, and the trickle of ridiculous random thoughts that would not stop (I wonder if I have enough clean clothes for tomorrow if I stay the night, I need to call their families and tell them, I wonder if Eames would lay down next to me when he comes back), he sank, mercifully, into sleep.

When he woke, disoriented and bleary, it was dark and he could just make out Eames’s bulk in the chair next to the bed. He’d removed his hideous paisley shirt and sat there in his undershirt, his Glock on his thigh and his hand wrapped around the neck of a mostly-full bottle of vodka. He offered it silently to Arthur and he accepted, sitting on the edge of the bed, their knees almost touching, passing the bottle back and forth. Eames was watching Arthur carefully, looking like he wanted to say something but not knowing what, and Arthur couldn't help him out. He felt like all the words in the English language had become trite and useless.

When his head was tolerably insensate, he staggered to the bathroom to take a leak. He could hear Eames’s rough baritone talking on the phone but couldn't make out what he was saying. He stood in the bathroom doorway drying his hands on the scratchy towel and watching Eames pace the small room. He was talking to Miles, Arthur guessed, explaining to him that his son-in-law wouldn't be landing in Toronto tomorrow, wouldn't be picking up the kids, wouldn't be doing anything anymore, ever. Arthur had been dreading the call, and gratitude toward Eames rushed him, making him feel lightheaded and dizzy. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched Eames as he finished the call and removed the SIM card, snapping it in two and dropping the whole thing in the wastebasket before sitting next to Arthur. They sat, close but not touching, not looking at each other, for a long time. Then Arthur wet his lips and croaked out, “Thank you.”  It was the first thing he'd said to the forger, but Eames just nodded. In the morning, he would need to make plans, buy a new plane ticket, destroy his current alias. But tonight, the most he could do was reach for the burner phone in his own pocket, snap the SIM card and toss it next to Eames’s in the trash. He wanted to sleep for a thousand years. His throat felt too small, his eyes too large, and he realized his eyelids had dropped only when they snapped open as Eames rose and moved to the chair.

“Get some more rest, Arthur. I'll keep an eye out.”

Arthur nodded, grateful yet again to the man he'd been secretly in love with for the past four years. He removed his shoes, his tie, and his belt, then crawled beneath the sheets and tried to shut off his brain. He lay there in the dark, watching the moonlight pour in through the gap in the curtains and glint off the shape of Eames shoulders, his cheekbones, the gun in his lap. He wished he knew how to ask for comfort from the other man.  Eames’s fingers twitched and his lips pressed together minutely, motions most people wouldn't have noticed. People who hadn't been paying way too much attention to Eames’s every move for far too long, anyway. Arthur knew he wanted a cigarette and he watched the forger silently until, finally, his eyes creaked closed and he slept.  

* * *

 

 

When Arthur woke, Eames was on edge from being awake all night, chewing gum and bouncing his knee. When he saw Arthur stir, though, he stilled immediately and watched him. Arthur looked like shit. Eames would be amazed at the sight of his normally fastidiously beautiful Arthur looking so disheveled if his heart wasn't busy breaking for him.

Arthur and Dom had been in the business together as long as he'd known them. Whenever you worked with one, you worked with the other. When Mal had been alive, they'd been the most efficient and ruthless dreamshare team in the business. Eames had joined them occasionally, jobs when they needed a forger and he'd been available, each one perfectly planned and usually perfectly executed. Shit happens, and there were no guarantees, especially in this business, but Eames had never turned down a chance to work with Arthur.  Calm, cool, ruthless Arthur, utterly unflappable, gorgeous and aloof.  He used his genius level IQ as a weapon, both in dreams and topside, but he was no slouch at actual weapons in either atmosphere either.  Eames thought he was delightful.  

The Arthur in front of him looked about ten years younger than he'd ever seen him, and about ten years older at the same time. He didn’t make eye contact, just moved to the tiny coffee pot by the sink and started filling it.  Eames realized he was staring and flipped on the telly to give his eyes something to do besides ogle someone who was so obviously in pain.  He kept flipping channels, giving Arthur some space and looking for the news, when a steaming cup of tea was thrust under his nose.  He looked up at Arthur in surprise. 

“English breakfast,” Arthur said with a small smile.  “It’s all they have.”

He took it, softly.  “Thank you, love.”

Arthur nodded, then moved back to the sink, refilling the pot and starting coffee this time.  He made to head to the bathroom, but Eames stopped him.

“Hey...look at this.”

Arthur followed Eames’s gaze riveted on the news and listened as he turned it up.

 

> _“...was internationally rocked today when business mogul Kensaku Saito was found unconscious aboard his privately owned commercial airline, along with an internationally wanted criminal.  When Mr. Saito couldn’t be roused, he was taken to the nearest hospital, where he is now reported to be in stable condition.  Currently, the police have not released a statement regarding whether this is tied to Dominic Cobb, a man wanted on charges of suspected murder of his wife in the United States, who was found in a similar state on the same flight.  Mr. Saito’s multi-million dollar energy conglomerate, Proclus Global, has been recently poised to take over competing company Fischer-Morrow, lead by CEO....”_

Eames turned the volume down again.  “Sounds like they’re still putting it together.  Better grab your bag, darling, that’s our exit cue.”

Arthur grunted, “Coffee first,” then headed for the bathroom.  Eames sighed, then sloshed the liquid into the cup for him, adding packets of cream and sugar and capping it before grabbing his shirt and slinging it on.  Arthur emerged, hair re-slicked and clothing looking far less slept-in than any man in his state had a right to look.  Eames took a moment to admire the view as they both quickly knotted their ties, his full Windsor in comparison to Arthur’s half Windsor.   Ever a model of efficiency, that was his Arthur.

He handed Arthur the PASIV and his coffee and hefted both their bags, Arthur pulling a phone from the pocket first.  Eames handled checkout and securing a cab while Arthur spoke rapid-fire French into the phone.  He guided Arthur into the cab and barked, “LAX,” at the cab driver, but Arthur broke off his conversation.  

“No, Van Nuys Airport.”  

Eames furrowed his brow at the younger man, but Arthur ignored him, turning back to his contact on the other end of the phone.  About ten minutes into the drive, Arthur hung up the phone, looking flushed and frustrated.  

“What did he say, darling?”

Arthur rolled his eyes.  “Don’t give me that, I know you can speak French, Eames.”

“Not if I can help it.  I’m _English_ , Arthur.  It’s against the law where I’m from.”

It provoked a curve of his lips, so Eames counted in a win.  They rode in silence for a long while, Eames desperate not to push Arthur further than he could handle.  Eames spent the time studying Arthur out of the corner of his eye.  He was good at it by now.  Arthur spent the time on his phone, doing point man things before finally sighing and shoving the phone into his pocket.  

“If you have something to say, Eames, just say it.”  Arthur didn’t sound mad, just resigned.  His voice carried weariness and resolve at the same time, and Eames had never wanted to reach over and touch Arthur’s face as much as he wanted to right now.  He wanted to cup his jaw, press a kiss into his forehead and pull him into his arms, to let him know that he could lay it down for a little while.  But he didn’t.  He knew Arthur wouldn’t appreciate it, and Eames wanted...well, he just wanted.  Always had when it came to Arthur.  But he’d always kept it light, everything on the surface, too scared to push that barrier and have it slammed shut in his face.  So he’d always relished every chance he’d had to tease Arthur, crowd his personal space, provoke reactions out of the tightly buttoned up point man.  

Right now, though, Arthur needed light.  He didn’t need anything else on his plate, and if Eames could ease the pressure off him, God knows he would.  “No, I don’t have anything to say.  Did you want me to say something?” he asked softly.

Arthur turned to look at him, his face unreadable.  For several long moments, Eames held his breath, waiting.  Then Arthur’s phone buzzed in his pocket and the spell was broken.  Eames bunched his jacket under his head and gave in to the exhaustion that was finally catching up with him and let Arthur get back to the tasks he’d assigned to himself.  In about an hour, the airport coasted into view.  Eames didn’t ask questions, just grabbed their bags and the PASIV from the trunk, then headed toward the bank of lockers inside.  

“Locker 28?” Eames verified.

Arthur nodded, then Eames stepped aside so he could spin the dial on the lock.  He retrieved two sets of flawless papers, Eames himself couldn’t have done better.  

“Frank, Thomas,” Eames said, dubiously.  “You know how I feel about two first names, darling.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Mr. Thomas,” Arthur said calmly, transferring paperwork and stashing his old information in the locker.

“It’s Mr. Frank to you.  I think.”  Eames squinted at his new passport again doubtfully.  “Wait, this was Pierre wasn't it? God, I hate him. You tell him something for me, the next time you see him ok? And I want you to use these exact words. "Eames hates you passionately, and he thinks you are a dickface. And by that, I mean, of course, that he thinks your face looks like a dick.”

“I can’t tell him that, Eames, you know he doesn’t speak English,”  Arthur answered dryly.  

The normalcy of the exchange made Eames’s heart flip flop for a beat and he grinned, but then Arthur grew preternaturally still and stared at his wingtips.

“Eames,” he started, not meeting his eyes, and then licked his lips.  “Eames,” he tried again, “you don’t have to come with me.  I owed you the paperwork for last night, and I...’m really grateful.  But you don’t owe me anything.  And I’ll be fine on my own.”

Eames could feel the heat from their bodies in the space between them, and the desire to step closer to Arthur, force him to meet his eyes and acknowledge that he wasn’t alone was almost overwhelming.  

“Will you, darling?”

Arthur did look up then.  He took a step back and placed his hands in his pockets and looked at Eames coolly.  “Of course.”

“Of course.”  What else could he say to that?  “Well.  Do you already have your tickets?”

“I'm...ah...I’m flying.”

Now it was Eames’s turn to step back and place his hands in his trouser pockets. “Of course.”

Arthur…did Arthur _blush_?!

“No, I mean, _I’m_ flying.”

Eames blinked.

“I have an old Cessna that I store here, and I...well, I grew up in LA, so…”

“Darling!” Eames gushed. “Is there nothing you can't do?”  He beamed at Arthur and leaned forward to grab his bag. “Well, now you have to take me up.  I will accept nothing less than the best pilot in California.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, but turned and walked Eames to the gate.


	2. I Spoke to You in Cautious Tones

Eames's fascinated face tracked him through pre-flight checks and takeoff, but once they were in the air he was down for the count.  Arthur watched his soft breaths from where he slept in the co-pilot seat and wondered if Eames still dreamed.  Eames was a man of a dying breed: a veteran of dreamshare who still seemed to enjoy his job.  Arthur had watched him giddy with excitement about new dreamscapes and experimental Somnacin blends and had experienced his impeccable forgeries, both new and standby.  Eames made the most boring jobs tolerable, although Arthur would spend days before the job started tied up in knots, double and triple checking to make sure everything was right and convincing himself that he could handle being around Eames for extended periods of time without embarrassing himself.

 Except for this job.  The Fischer job had been a fuck-up from the beginning, and Arthur knew it.  He had pulled down so much information in the days leading up to the senior Fischer's death, his head had started to hurt.  He'd had backup plans for his backup plans, and all of them made with the assumption that the evil projection of Cobb's dead wife would show up at exactly the wrong moment and ruin everything.  And yet, somehow, he'd managed to miss the fact that Fischer had been militarized, had been _trained_ to avoid people exactly like him and his team.  How, how?!  How could he have missed something so vital?  Arthur didn't miss things, he just didn't. 

 Arthur was a master of compartmentalizing, but he forced himself to acknowledge the fact that maybe if he'd been less distracted by a stupid high school crush on Eames, he might have noticed the militarization clues.  It had thrown the entire mission off, it had gotten Saito shot, and it had been his responsibility to make sure the team was prepared.  He didn't know what else had happened in the dream, he'd need to ask Eames when he woke.  It could be important.  

 Arthur's jaw creaked as he unclenched it, and he forced his hands to relax.  He focused on flying, unnecessarily re-checking instruments and occasionally risking a glance at his sleeping...friend?  Co-worker?  He didn't know how to classify Eames anymore.  Sometimes it seemed as if he'd always known Eames.  Arthur kept him at arms length--figuratively of course, because literally, Eames was constantly in his space.  He knew, though, that if he let Eames in, even a little, he wouldn't be able to stop.  He would be pulled under in the tow that was Eames, and he wouldn't ever recover.  And Eames would sail on, unperturbed, leaving Arthur tumbling along beside all the others pining in his wake.  Arthur had watched it happen.  Hell, he'd slammed a warehouse door on a flying purse once when a woman he'd slept with the night before followed him to the job site the next day and confronted him.  When Eames had politely but in no uncertain terms turned her down for a relationship, she'd gone ballistic and Arthur had unconsciously reached for the gun in his shoulder holster.  But Eames had ducked outside with her, talking calmly and soothingly like she was a skittish horse and when he finally came back in, shooting embarrassed looks Arthur's way, Arthur ignored him and started the task of determining if their job security was compromised due to Eames's libido.   

 Arthur forced his fingers to loosen once more and pushed a slow breath out.  What he really wanted was to sleep for a thousand years.  He glanced guiltily over at Eames, who actually needed the rest, and found sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes staring at him.  

 "Oh," he started.  "I didn't realize you were awake."  His voice sounded loud in the small space.

 "Only just," Eames said blearily. "Everything alright?"

 Arthur said nothing, just stared at the horizon. 

 "Arthur?"

 "What the hell happened down there, Eames?  I mean, seriously, what the fuck."  Arthur hated how lost he sounded. He _hated_  it. He punched down the feelings and re-clenched his jaw. He could do this. He could separate his career and his personal life.  He would have a chance to lose his shit some other time, but he needed to keep it together right now, get them somewhere safe and figure out what to do next.  If there even was a next.

 So Arthur sat and listened to Eames explain how they dragged Fischer through the third dream level, how Mal had fucked everything royally by shooting Fischer and how Eames had used a defibrillator to bring him back out of limbo.  

 "Are you sure he was in limbo?  I've never heard of anyone getting pulled out of limbo, ever.  You know that.  It's a lost cause."  Arthur felt a dangerous skitter of hope in his chest, despite what he was saying.  If Eames knew something about pulling people out of limbo...but Eames wasn't saying anything. "Eames?" he asked, glancing quickly at the forger. 

 "Ah.  Well, it wasn't just me.  It was Ari's idea, actually, and Cobb just agreed to it."

 If they'd been driving, Arthur would have pulled over.  Instead, he settled for reaching over to yank Eames forward by the collar of his hideous shirt.  His voice was deadly.  "Agreed to what, exactly."

 Eames looked back at him calmly.  "To going into limbo to rescue Fischer."

 He kept talking, but Arthur's ears were only picking up a low roar that drowned out the details.  Ariadne made it out, Robert Fischer made it out.  Saito and Dom hadn't.  Arthur's eyes closed.

 "...not sure, exactly.  We missed the first kick, and we were cutting it close, but I set off the explosives on the third level, Fischer told Browning that he was going to take his father's advice on the second, and we rode the kick all the way up.  Saito wasn't looking good when we--"

 Arthur's eyes snapped open.  "Wait, say that again.  Fischer said he'd take his father's advice?"

 Eames flashed his ever-reliable smile, wide and just this side of lascivious.  "I think it worked, Arthur.  Inception.  I think we did it."

 "Jesus."  Arthur thought he should feel...something.  Relieved, excited, validated...something.  But he just felt numb.  "Jesus," he said again.

 "Yeah."  Eames's voice sounded odd, and Arthur looked at him, eyes narrowed.  Then he realized, to his abject mortification, that his hand was still curled possessively in Eames's shirt.  He dropped his hand immediately and absolutely _refused_ to blush, even though he could feel the tips of his stupid ears heating up anyway.

 "Well, the implications of that are far-reaching," he said, trying to get himself back on sure footing.  "But...you're _sure_  that Ari and Fischer came back from limbo?"

 "As much as I love it when you assume I don't know what I'm talking about, pet, they did both wake up."

 Arthur ignored the jibe and let his imagination run for a few moments.  He needed his Moleskin.  "Here, take over for a second," Arthur said as he reached around into the back seat for his bag.  Eames's eyes flew open in panic and he set his hands carefully on the co-pilot wheel.

 "O...kay," he said quietly.

 "Eames.  I'm kidding, it has autopilot."  Arthur maneuvered back into his seat, notebook and pen in hand, already finding a clean page.  

 Eames stared at him.  "You just made a joke," he said, disbelief evident. "Arthur!"  Eames sounded delighted.

 Arthur scowled and kept writing.  "See if I ever do it again.  Look, we need to find Ariadne and ask her what she knows.  I've never been to limbo, let alone pulled anyone out of it.  I don't know what to expect.  Didn't you work with Hutzel a few years ago on that cock-up in Shanghai?"

 "Yeah, but no one pulled that bastard out of anywhere.  Last I heard he was eating through IVs and waiting for someone to trip over the plug."

 "Did anyone else go down with him?  Anyone we could talk to?"

 "Wait, Arthur, just wait a minute.  Are you suggesting that we go into limbo, on purpose, on a rescue mission?"

 Arthur paused, looking at Eames.  "Of course not."  He watched Eames's shoulders slump in relief.  "I'm suggesting  _I_ go into limbo on a rescue mission.  You're not invited."  He went back to writing.  

 Eames watched him for a few minutes before saying, "Darling?  I know you're terribly busy writing...things, but do you think you could explain to me exactly how you plan to pull two men out of limbo, at the same time, by yourself?"

 Arthur arched an eyebrow at him.  "Specificity, Eames?  Not usually a requirement of yours."  Eames's lips tightened into a thin line and Arthur sighed.  "Look, I don't know yet.  I need more data if I'm going to make any kind of plan, I don't know what I'm dealing with.  Ari's the best bet for finding out anything, so I'm starting there.  Maybe she can give me an idea of what to expect, and how the hell she managed to drag herself out of limbo and bring Fischer with her.  It's, to my knowledge, the first time it's ever been done."

 Eames was quiet for a moment.  "You know that I..."

 Arthur paused and looked up when Eames didn't start talking again.  "You...?" he prompted.

 Eames cleared his throat and faced the front of the plane.  "I think I know where Ari is, and I also might have caught wind of a rumor about a guy coming out of limbo a few years ago.  I can call him when we land."

 Arthur narrowed his eyes at the bigger man but nodded.  "Thanks.  We should be there in about an hour."

 

* * *

 

Arthur landed planes the way he did everything else: beautifully.  Not a hair out of place, not a word or movement wasted and Eames managed not to stare but watched Arthur's fingers out the corner of his eye.  They danced with calm confidence over the instrument panel, held the control wheel with certainty.  

 Arthur was always a picture of competence, but Eames loved nothing more than the days Arthur was throwing himself into a job, getting more and more ruffled as the day went on, and the facade started to wear away.  Pretty soon he’d hang the jacket to his three-piece suit on the back of a chair.  Then, later, he’d roll the sleeves of his Oxford to his elbow.  His tightly gelled hair would curl after he’d plowed his hands through it enough times.  Toward the end of the day, he’d lose his waistcoat and loosen his tie.  Eames loved to watch this come-down and wondered if he kept pushing if it wouldn’t all unravel.  He’d never pushed too hard, but oh, how he wanted to.

 "Why Alaska, darling?" Eames questioned as he exited the small aircraft, getting used to the feel of solid ground under his feet again.  He always loved the first few minutes after landing, where his body remembered what it felt like to be on the planet again.  

 "No one thinks about Alaska,"  Arthur answered dismissively.

 "Well.  It is technically part of America, though."

 Arthur snorted.  "I'm American, and I can promise you, no one thinks about Alaska."

 Arthur navigated them through the airport, plane storage, and car rental while Eames was on Arthur's phone this time.  By the time he was done, he'd used three different accents, burned two different bridges, repaired one, and had a date next time he was in Moscow.  However, he still had no answers about limbo.  He was feeling worn a little thin.  Also, it was bloody cold in this state, and he hadn't exactly left with a parka.  He cajoled Arthur into stopping someplace to buy additional layers since we couldn't all pull off bespoke three-piece wool blend suits.  Arthur rolled his eyes.

 "You can buy something at the hotel gift shop," he said as he pulled the rental car into the hotel turnout and grabbed a ticket from the valet.  

 "What?  You mean you don't already have a handy Alaskan bolthole stocked with provisions and extra guns just waiting for you?  Darling, I'm a little disappointed.  You should really plan better than that."

 "Who says I don't?  It's easier to hide in a big city.  Besides, we won't be here long."  

 Arthur was back in his element, planning and bossing and God help him, Eames couldn't stop the little shiver that Arthur's competency provoked in him.  Or maybe that was because it was sodding cold, who could tell.  He followed him dutifully to the front desk but when the concierge asked Arthur what size room they'd be needing, he leaned in on impulse and slid an arm around Arthur's waist, quipping, "Let's get a king-size this time, darling, you remember what happened last time."  He grinned cheekily.

 He felt Arthur stiffen momentarily before he melted against Eames's side, turning and flashing a dazzling smile, complete with dimples.  "Yes, let's."  He handed a credit card to the woman, but Eames couldn't follow any more of the transaction because his brain had skidded offline when Arthur had fucking  _beamed_ at him, and  _joked_ with him, about being a  _couple_.  His heart leapt, then plummeted just as quickly.  This was stupid, he couldn't take joking about this stuff, what was he thinking?  Not when he was as serious as a heart attack about wanting Arthur to look at him like that for real.  He let his arm drop and put some space between them, reaching for their bags to cover his retreat.  Arthur thinking that being a couple was funny might just break him.

* * *

 


	3. My Silence is my Self Defense

Eames hadn't said anything since the lobby, and Arthur knew he'd been joking, of _course_  he'd been joking, and of course Arthur had only played along because it was tactical and made sense to spread the illusion of a couple traveling together rather than two individuals and what the _fuck had he been thinking_?  If there was anything Arthur hated in this world it was feeling stupid and he was feeling it now.  He covered his embarrassment with movement, unpacking and setting up his laptop and getting to work. He also snuck in a roll of his loaded die, twice, just in case he'd be able to wake up and this whole goddamn thing was a bad dream.  No such luck, fours all around.

Eames had been right about Ariadne, she was still in Paris.  He found her in 20 minutes, and he shook his head as he cleaned up behind her, removing traces of her and laying fake leads to cover her tracks.  As he worked, he listened to Eames in the background absentmindedly unpacking the world's worst wardrobe and talking to someone in Russian on Arthur's phone.  Arthur's Russian was superficial at best, but he didn't intend Eames to find that out unless absolutely necessary.  He was man enough to admit that Eames knew more languages than he did, it was a side effect of pretending to be different people all over the world.  But that didn't mean he was proud of it.  He just wasn't going to inflate Eames's ego any more than it already was.  

Eames was apparently talking to a Dimitri, and Arthur could follow the conversation enough to hear Eames laugh and flirt the way he did with everyone before asking questions about limbo.  Dimitri had a lot to say and when Eames finally hung up, he was frowning a bit.  Arthur jerked his eyes back to his laptop before Eames could catch him staring.  

"Hows Dimitri?" Arthur asked with what he hoped was a casual air.  He knew the flirty tone wasn't all act, he and Dimitri had been a thing two years ago when Eames had lived in St. Petersburg for six months.  Not that Arthur kept track or anything.

"Smarmy as ever.  But he did work with Marjorie last year, who said she'd been on a job with a guy who swore he'd been to limbo and back."

"Do you believe him?"

"Doesn't matter," Eames said matter of factly.  "He can't remember who it was, and Marjorie died a few months ago in Kiev.  Someone ratted them out."

"Oh."  Arthur wasn't sure exactly how to react to that.  "Did you know her well?"

"Nope, never had the pleasure.  But that's the end of my possible contacts.  I haven't heard anything else and I can beat the bushes if you need--"

"No, that's alright, I'd rather not advertise this any more than necessary.  You were right, Ari is in Paris, I'm going to see if I can get a hold of her later."

"What are you working on now?"  Suddenly his space was taken up with Eames, one hand on the back of his chair, the other on the desk, peering at his screen.  Eames's stubble covered jaw was _right there_  and Arthur's mouth was suddenly dry.

"Ah, tracking, trying to track down, other leads."  Jesus, he smelled good.  "I've got a few ideas," he cleared his throat, "it's taking longer than I wanted, though."

Thankfully, Eames moved back.  "Well, let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

"Mmhm."  But Arthur's brain had restarted a bit with the extra inches between them so he continued.  "I've also been keeping an eye on the news reports and covering our tracks.  Ari's not very good at this yet.  Yusuf seems to be ok, though, I couldn't find much on him at all.  Must have gone back to his dream dens."  

"That's Yusuf, slippery devil," Eames said flippantly, moving to store his gun in the top drawer of the dresser.

Arthur worked on ignoring him.  He stretched his arms over his head the way he did when he'd been sitting for too long, sighing as the stiffness eased out of his shoulders and back.  Then he took off his tie, rolled his sleeves to the elbow and got back to work.  He needed to focus and get Eames out of his head.  He'd read the same thing three times and he had shit to do, so fuck Eames and his stupid shoulders and his stupid mouth and his stupid stubble.  

"I'm just gonna jump in the shower."

Fuck.  Of course he was.  Because Arthur absolutely needed more mental images to make his work go faster.

"Sure."  Arthur was pretty proud that he almost sounded normal when he said it too.  He kept laser focused on his laptop until Eames's back had disappeared behind the bathroom door, then Arthur gave up and sat back in his chair.  "Fuck," he whispered to himself, grinding his knuckles into his eyes.  He heard the water turn on and could track the movements of the other man by the sounds coming through the thin wall.  He couldn't stop seeing Eames disrobing and crowding his muscled bulk into the small shower, water glistening off his tattoos and running in rivulets down his chest...ribs...hip bone...thigh...Arthur clenched his jaw around the small groan that escaped.  " _Ok_ ," he thought, addressing his raging erection, " _we are going to have to keep our shit together.  Don't embarrass me_." But halfway through naming the US vice presidents in reverse chronological order, Arthur heard an unmistakable sound over the rush of the water.  He listened in shock for ten seconds to the explicit rhythmic sound of skin on skin, his face and neck heating.  Then he choked back a whimper, grabbed his jacket and phone and fled the room as fast as he could.  

* * *

 

Arthur was an arsehole, there was no other explanation for him stretching and moaning and then partially disrobing.  There was really only so much a man can take.  And if Eames happened to be thinking of Arthur's lean body stretched out under him while he was in the shitty hotel shower, well, no one needed to know.

When he exited the too warm bathroom, it was to an empty room.  Which wasn't concerning as much as the fact that Arthur's laptop was open and _unlocked_.  Eames immediately moved to the dresser and pulled the Glock he'd hastily purchased in LA and chambered a round.  He moved to the door, listening for a second before throwing it open and sighting both ends of the hallway.  Spotting only a shocked hotel guest in the middle of opening their room door, Eames realized he was holding a gun in a hotel and wearing only a towel.  He flashed his most charming smile at the older woman and dialed up the British accent.  "Sorry, love! Thought I heard something!"  She continued to stand, frozen, mouth slightly open.  He lowered his voice conspiratorially.  "Don't worry, it's not real.  Just for show," he winked, then eased back into the room.  He realized Arthur's mobile was no longer on the bed where he'd tossed it.  The knot in his chest eased slightly.  Abductors probably don't allow you to take your mobile.

Eames dialed Arthur's number on the room phone from memory.  He readjusted his grip on the gun while it rang, but when Arthur finally answered he sank onto the bed in relief.  

"Arthur, darling!  Haven't seen you in a while, how are the kids?"

There was a pause on the other end and Eames held his breath.  "I don't have kids, Eames.  I'm fine, I just stepped out.  Be back in 20.  You want Chinese?  I can't promise how authentic it'll be.  Actually, that's not true.  I can promise you how unauthentic it will be."

Eames could finally breathe again.  "Sure, that's..." he cleared his throat. "That's fine, Arthur, thank you."

"Sure," Arthur said, then hung up.

Eames dropped the phone back in the cradle, then ran his hands over his face, blowing out a tension-filled sigh.  Then he realized that Arthur's laptop was unlocked and he was just sitting here wasting an opportunity that would probably never come again.  Actually, he was sure it would never come again, precisely because of what he was going to do next.  After setting Arthur's background to a picture of a [naked David Hasselhoff cuddling a puppy](http://slappedham.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/David-Hasselhoff-with-puppies.jpg) and resetting all his bookmarks to gay porn sites, he pulled back open Arthur's windows.  

"Fuck.  Is this _Interpol_?!" he said in shock, looking at the hacked website before him.  "How does he fucking do that?"

"I'll tell you when you're older."

Eames's gun was pointed at Arthur before he processed who was speaking.  Arthur held up Chinese food bags in mock surrender and raised an eyebrow.  Eames lowered the gun quickly, embarrassed Arthur had managed to sneak up on him.  "Shit.  You about gave me a bloody heart attack."

"You planning on getting dressed, ever?" Arthur said, glancing down Eames's towel-clad figure.  "You'll shock the paramedics."

"Well, if you weren't a bloody ninja who can't accurately calculate 20 minutes..." Eames grumbled, crossing the room to pull pants and trousers on under his towel.

Arthur dished up food and they ate in companionable silence.  Until, of course, Eames couldn't take it anymore.  "So how long will we be in beautiful Alaska?  Will I have time to buy a sled dog?"

"How did you know there was a breeder here?"

"Wait, there is?  Seriously?"

Arthur rolled his eyes.  "I need to call Ariadne.  The time difference makes it about..." he checked his watch, "6:30 in the morning there.  Think she'll be up?"

"Darling.  Do you even remember university?  Give the poor girl a break.  In the meantime..." Eames arranged himself on the bed and put his hands behind his head. He waggled his eyebrows at Arthur and paused long enough for Arthur to arch an eyebrow at him before he continued.  "You can tell me your plan for getting Cobb and Saito out of limbo."

Arthur's brow furrowed and Eames felt a little tug at his heart at the sight of Arthur's thinking frown.  "Well, they're at Marina Del Rey Hospital, listed in stable condition.  They're under surveillance right now, but I expect the police will lose interest shortly and we have the option of either getting them and taking them somewhere or figuring out how to get in and bribe an entire hospital floor to let us hook them up to a PASIV..."

Trust Arthur to work on logistics first.  Eames let him talk it out.  Arthur wouldn't admit it, but he worked better out loud.  He worked best in a team, though, someone to bounce ideas off of and people to give him inspiration.  He chose to believe that's why Arthur had followed bloody Cobb around for years: because he didn't want to do it alone.  Eames just listened and reveled in the way Arthur didn't seem to notice he was saying "we" and "us".  Eventually, Arthur's fingers twitched and Eames handed him his Moleskin from the bedside table.  Arthur took it without breaking his monologue, he didn't even seem to realize Eames had handed it to him, just grabbed the pencil tucked inside and began to fill the page with his sprawling handwriting. 

Eames was always amused by Arthur's uncharacteristically messy handwriting.  He remembered the first time he'd worked with the Cobbs and he'd pickpocketed Arthur.  He'd swiped his wallet and notebook and sneaked a look at what he'd been writing.  Part of him figured Arthur wrote in the notebook whenever he didn't want to deal with other people, but the notes (or what he could make out of them) seemed strictly work-related.  He'd winked and handed it back when Arthur had given him a frankly terrifying scowl, and told him he just wanted to copy his notes after class, but he kept the wallet since Arthur hadn't seemed to notice.  At the time, he'd thought Arthur a terrific prat and was only grudgingly impressed when he found the next day that Arthur had pickpocketed him back.  He'd flirted and teased as they'd exchanged wallets and then cursed a blue streak when he'd tried the credit cards in his wallet and found them all with security flags on them. He'd been stuck at the police station for six hours, which was ridiculous because of _course_  there wasn't a security issue with his cards, he'd created the damn things the week before.  When he'd finally shown back up at the job and Arthur smirked at him, he felt only slightly murderous because Arthur was wearing a particularly fantastic pair of tailored trousers that day and he'd forgotten why he was angry for a moment.  Arthur had put his hands in his pockets and winked at him, the fucking prat, and Eames was a goner.  He'd been half-mad for Arthur ever since.

"Arthur."

Arthur stopped mid-sentence and blinked like he'd forgotten Eames was in the room.  "Yeah?"

"How do you propose we get into limbo whenever we do manage to get to them?"  

"Well..."

"Because you can't do a multi-level dream by yourself," Eames continued.  "And you can't go into both of their heads at the same time, at least, I don't think you can.  And I'd rather lessen our risk whenever possible on this one."

Where Eames had expected Arthur's classic scowl, he saw Arthur's face go carefully blank instead.

Eames hurried to continue, "I still have a number for Yusuf.  Maybe he can make us another batch of the Somnacin he used and we can shoot ourselves into limbo.  You get Cobb and I'll get Saito, and we'll pull them out at the same time." 

Arthur's face remained blank, then he placed the pencil inside his notebook and closed it.  "Eames, I can't let you do this."

Anger flooded Eames with the speed only Arthur could provoke.  He ground his teeth.  "As much as your condescension is almost a form of endearment at this point, you don't get to _let_  me do anything, darling."

"I mean it, Eames," Arthur said urgently.  "No fucking around.  I can't ask you to do this, so please understand when I tell you that it's not going to happen."

Eames reached behind him and grabbed the pillow he'd been leaning on and whipped it at the side of Arthur's head.  He had a whole litany of grief he was going to hurl at Arthur but at that moment, with the shock on Arthur's face and his carefully slicked hair knocked askew, Eames felt a laugh roll out of him.  Once he started, he couldn't quite stop, not even when Arthur's expected scowl showed up.  Eames collapsed on the bed, holding his sides and laughing until tears streamed down his face.

"Stop laughing, fucker, I'm serious," Arthur said but he was smiling.  He tossed the pillow back at Eames, who couldn't stop laughing long enough to even catch it and just laid there under the soft fabric as the last of the laughter was wrung out of him.  He stared at the ceiling as he caught his breath, then swivelled his head and beamed at Arthur.  Arthur was in the middle of trying to appear stern, but as he hadn't fixed his hair, it didn't have quite the effect it normally did.

Eames's smile softened.  "You don't have to ask me.  I will be doing this with you, so sorry to ruin your plans of solo world domination.  Now," he sat up, tossing the pillow lightly to Arthur, who caught it with a frown, "it's time to call Ari."

Arthur looked at his watch reflexively.  "Shit."  He grabbed for his mobile, dialing as he said, "This isn't over.  You can't just lesbian-porn-scene me every time you want to change the subject."

"Ah, but what fun it'll be to try," Eames smirked.

Arthur set the phone on the bed between them on speakerphone and it rang exactly once before Ariadne picked up, sounding panicked and breathless.  "ARTHUR!  Jesus Christ, I was freaking out.  Are you ok, what's going on?  Where are you?  Dom and Saito have been all over the news, I keep expecting the cops to show up at my door at any moment--"

"Ari.  Take a breath," Arthur said calmly.  Eames could hear her comply.

"Cheers, Ari!" Eames added in the pause.

"Eames?  Is Eames there too?  Where ARE you guys?!  I've been trying to get a hold of you, but your phones are turned off or something--"

"Ari.  You're forgetting to breathe again.  Just listen, ok?"  Arthur's eyes met Eames's over the phone.  "Eames and I are fine, we're holed up someplace safe and I've been keeping your trail clean so you can calm down about anyone showing up at your door.  Unless you're still seeing that douche, Eddie, then he'll probably show up at some point."

"He's not a douche!  How can you say that?!  And how do you even know about him?"

Arthur's small smile flitted across his face as he said, "Does he, or does he not, wear a Bluetooth and wraparound mirrored sunglasses when he jogs?"  Eames bit the inside of his cheek.

There was a pause on the other end.  Then, "How do you KNOW that?!"

"See?"  Arthur said.  "Douche."

"Fuck.  You make out with a guy one time and he thinks he can weigh in on your boyfriends."

Eames's eyebrows hit his hairline and he gaped at Arthur.  Arthur blushed and cleared his throat.

"Listen, I need to pick your brain."

"We.  We need to pick your brain," Eames added helpfully.

"Right.  Anyway, Eames said you went into limbo with Dom and we need to talk to you about what you saw and how you got out."

Ariadne sobered immediately.  "Oh, Arthur.  It was so sad.  Dom...God, he loved her so much."

Arthur paled visibly, but his face resumed its careful blankness.  "Tell me."

And they listened.  Ari talked and talked and talked, telling how Dom and Mal had been to limbo together and Mal lost herself.  She convinced herself she wanted to stay, and in trying to save her, Dom destroyed her sense of reality and, incidentally, performed the first inception.  She carried the loss of reality into the waking world.  And Dom had been wracked with guilt ever since.  

Eames watched Arthur as carefully as he dared, as he grew stiller and stiller until Eames was worried a touch would snap him in half.  Finally, Arthur closed his eyes and leaned forward, elbows on his knees and thumbs pressed firmly into his eyebrows.  He let out a shaky breath and Eames was torn between moving closer and giving him space.  He settled for staying where he was and asking Ariadne, "What did you see when you went down with him?"

"I saw his limbo.  Well, his and Mal's, everything they'd built.  We went to his house, and Mal was there.   Dom made her tell us where Robert was by saying that he'd stay with her."

"Fuck."  Eames glanced at Arthur, but he didn't look up.

"He promised me he'd come back instead, but only after he found Saito.  I guess he didn't find him."

"Yeah," Eames agreed forlornly.  "Maybe." 

"I felt the kick and Robert and I jumped off a cliff and woke up in Yusuf's dream, and you were there for the rest."

"So that's it?  You just die in limbo and wake up like normal?"

"Maybe," Ari hesitated.  "I think it's pretty easy to forget you're not awake.  Robert was on his way when we got there, and we were only a few minutes behind him.  Time doesn't really work the same way that far down.  If I hadn't felt the kick, I don't know that I'd have known it was time to go."

Eames chanced one more glance at Arthur, who hadn't moved.  "Right, I think that's what we needed.  Ta, Ari.  We'll be in touch, yeah?"

"Sure, thanks, guys.  Talk to you soon."

"Right."  Eames hung up, then bounced the mobile in his hand for a moment, watching Arthur and thinking.  Then he stood, crossed to the room's tiny coffee pot, an apparent standard in the upscale establishments they were frequenting these days.  Instead of coffee, though, he made a cuppa, or the closest approximation thereof, and brought it to Arthur.  When he didn't look up, Eames placed a hand softly on the back of his head and couldn't resist a short drag of fingers through his hair.  Arthur jumped slightly, then looked up at Eames, eyes red-rimmed and kind of lost.  Eames handed him the cup and Arthur took it wordlessly.  "Just like mum used to make.  Well.  Sort of."  He risked a small smile, but Arthur didn't see, eyes focused on the tea in his hand.  Eames sat on the bed, knees almost touching Arthur's.  "Darling", he started, then when Arthur didn't look up, he reached a hand and settled it on the base of Arthur's neck.    Arthur met his eyes and Eames said, "He's not gone.  Don't write him off yet.  He's a tough, crazy bastard.  Besides, if anyone can talk him round, it'll be you."  Arthur didn't look convinced but finally nodded.  "One step at a time, yeah?"

"Yeah."  Then Arthur drank his tea.

 


	4. To Heal the Wounds from Lovers Past

It was amazing what you could accomplish with the right access.  Arthur arranged for Cobb to be transferred to the private wing Saito was in at the hospital and then he ordered a set of scrubs with the hospital's logo. Size small.  Then he called Ari back. 

"Come on, Ari, it won't take long, just come help your old team members out!  No, you aren't, you are sick of him anyway. Because we need someone topside, that's why.  I don't need an architect, I need someone to do the kick, god damn it.  No, I'm absolutely not, I'm broke too.  Fine, you can have Eames.  I don't know, a personal slave or something.  No, Ari, I haven't.  No, I'm not going to.  Forget it, ok?  Just say you'll be there.   _Thank_ you.  Yeah...I know.  I miss him too.  Hey.  Thanks."

"What's this about me being a personal slave?"

"Hmm?  Oh, Ari.  She said she's broke since she didn't get paid and she's turning down a pretty flush job to come over here and, as she puts it, 'save our old fogey asses.'"

Eames snorted.  "Shows what she knows.  My arse is fantastic and your trousers don't leave much to the imagination."

Arthur arched an eyebrow.  "Doesn't seem to stop you." 

Eames pressed his hand to his chest.  "Why Arthur!  You'd better stop flirting back, I'm going to get the wrong idea.  You know my roguish ways."

Arthur rolled his eyes.  He seemed to be a permanent state of eye-roll around Eames.  It was, admittedly, a pretty weak form of self-protection and Arthur could feel how the last few hours chipped away at his defences when it came to Eames.  Arthur felt like a lightening rod, standing around waiting to get singed.  

"Did you get a hold of Yusuf? What did he say?"  

"Yes, no trouble.  He had some on hand actually, he's overnighting it to the address you gave me."

"Good.  We'll pick it up tomorrow."

Arthur watched his fingers disassembling Eames's gun and cleaning it, the smell of gun oil strong in the room.  He worked through each piece thoroughly,  lining them up when he was done, the movements comforting and routine.  You kept a gun in good working condition, it fired when you pulled the trigger.  You multiplied 8 and 8, you get 64 every time.  You called your mom on Mother's Day and she cries into the phone.  These are things he can count on.  But every second with Eames was one that he couldn't predict.  He wanted him, oh, how he wanted him, and every tease, every flirtatious glance made him ache.  But the things about Eames that terrified him were the times that he would bring in coffee for the team and always get Arthur's order exactly right, or the times he'd be in a meeting and say something brilliant and Arthur would feel a tumbling sensation in his chest. It terrified him because he knew Eames didn't do relationships, and Arthur had never done anything less.  All the men he'd been with had been battles hard fought--hiding what he did for a living, where he'd been for two weeks, why he couldn't go to Christmas dinner or where that particular scar had come from.  He'd concocted a pretty safe answer for all of them and hadn't really been surprised when the relationships never lasted.  But he'd tried, damn it.  That's what people do, right?  That's how humans define happiness and contentment: a steady partner and someone to come home to.  But Arthur had run away from home the first chance he'd gotten, and every steady partner he'd tried out had been...well, he'd tried.  

Arthur thought of his last boyfriend, Paul, and cringed.  Paul had been ex-military, a Marine he'd met at a shooting range in between jobs.  Paul had approached him, which didn't usually happen, and said he'd always wanted to fire the Beretta Storm Arthur had been using.  They talked guns for a while and Arthur suggested they switch and shoot a few rounds, and when Paul had handed over his HK USP 9mm without question, Arthur had fallen in love.  With the gun, of course, although Paul wasn't bad either.  Arthur had asked him out and bought his own USP, and it been good for about a year, but they'd broken up before the Fischer job.  Arthur had promised that Cobol was the last one for a while, that he'd be around more after that and they'd have a chance to make it work.  And the shit part was that Arthur had meant it.  Paul had stood there with that muscle in his jaw flexing like it did when Arthur pissed him off and frowned when Arthur had told him that he'd be leaving the country again and could they get coffee when he got back and talk about this?  "You don't know how I take my coffee, Arthur," was all he'd said before he brushed past him and let himself out of Arthur's apartment.   And Arthur didn't know.  He remembered Paul's stories, the ones he'd told him, and he kept them straight from the things he'd looked up about him, never getting them confused.  And they'd had amazing sex and Arthur never tried to find a way to leave immediately afterwards, and he'd honestly thought they'd had a chance.  But when the door had closed behind Paul for the last time, Arthur looked around his spartan apartment, packed his clothes, and hopped a plane to France because what the hell else could he do.  

Eames took his coffee black, with two sugars, but he preferred tea.  Earl Grey, if it was available.  God, Arthur was so fucked.

Arthur looked at the gun in his hands, apparently reassembled by him, and reloaded it forcefully before setting it on the desk in front of him.  He felt Eames's eyes on him and looked over.  Eames had changed into a pair of plaid flannel pajama bottoms that rode low on his hips, his chest bare and his tattoos stark against his skin in the fluorescent light.  He was watching Arthur in the mirror while he brushed his teeth.  Eames held his gaze when he saw Arthur looking and licked a spot of toothpaste off his bottom lip.  Heat pooled in Arthur's stomach and he felt his pulse quicken.

"You look pretty serious.  What are you thinking about?" Eames asked.

Shit.  Arthur reached back to find remember what he'd been thinking about before Eames's mouth and hips and how he took his tea.  "Paul."  Shit again.  

Something flashed over Eames's face before he smiled at Arthur in the mirror.  "Ah, thinking happy thoughts.  That's the way to do it."

"I'm loading a gun and thinking of my ex-boyfriend and you think I'm thinking happy thoughts?"

Eames's smile widened.  "Well, I didn't realize you'd broken up, so...maybe?  Are thoughts involving guns and your ex making you happy?"

Arthur felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.  "Maybe."

"Good Lord, pet, I bet you are terrifying to break up with." 

"Apparently not terrifying enough.  But it doesn't really matter, I wasn't actually thinking about Paul."

"No?"

"Nah.  I was thinking about his gun."

"Huh.  Pretty impressive, was it?  Well.  You know what I always say.  You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling."

Arthur's chuckle rolled out, and he relaxed, just a bit, for the first time since he'd woken on the plane.  He sat back in his chair, hands laced behind his head.

"It was beautiful, though.  I bought one myself, and she's my favorite.  Kind of wish I had it here."  

Eames dropped himself onto the bed, sitting up against the headboard and crossing his arms over his naked torso.  "I know the feeling.  I've got one of those at home too."

"Yeah?" Arthur asked.  "The Colt Combat Commander?"

Eames looked decidedly pleased. "Indeed!  How did you know that?"

Arthur shrugged, embarrassed.  "You always dream one, even if you don't use it."

Eames smiled at the ceiling.  "Hmm.  The real one is in London, actually."

"Really?" Arthur frowned.  "I thought you didn't go to London anymore."  

Eames appeared bemused.  "Checking up on me, eh?"

Arthur's face heated and he shrugged again.  He was giving away an awful lot today. 

"No, you're right, I don't.  I've never actually fired that one.  It was my dad's.  But I seem to own several now.  Just drawn to it, I guess." 

Arthur hesitated, then asked, "Do you still talk to them?  Your parents, I mean?"

Eames drew his knees up and rested his forearms on them.  He fixed Arthur with a look and said flatly, "No.  You?"

Arthur shook his head.  "Couple of calls, home for Hanukkah if I'm not on a job, that's about it.  I didn't want to make them a target, at first, and then it just got to be..."

"...normal.  Too strange to go back now," Eames supplied.

Arthur nodded, thoughtfully.  "Is that why you don't talk to your parents?"

Eames didn't say anything for a while, and Arthur started kicking himself mentally.  He didn't need to know that, why was he pushing this?  He and Eames were having a perfectly nice conversation, and he had to ruin it by being himself.  The truth was, this was something that Arthur didn't know about Eames.  He had specifically tried not to dig too far into Eames's personal past, just because they were friends and he didn't need the information, but he'd always been curious, they way you can't stop staring at a piece of blank canvas in the middle of a painting.  Arthur opened his mouth to take it back when Eames started talking.

"I don't talk to them anymore because they don't talk to me."  Eames swallowed, his eyes on his clasped hands.  "When I was 16, my dad walked in on me snogging Sarah Kastans in my room after school one day.  I remember he laughed and tossed me a condom and told me not to get her pregnant.  But the next week, when he walked in on me snogging Sarah's brother, he wasn't laughing.  He called me every name you can think of and told me to get out and not come back.  He handed me a twenty pound note and said he'd tell my mum that I joined the army and he didn't want to see me ever again."

"Jesus.  What did you do?" 

Eames looked at Arthur then.  "I joined the army."

"When you were 16?!"

"Ah.  Well, that's also where I got started forging too.  Turns out a twenty pound note, an IOU, and an interest in art can get you not only a dodgy set of paperwork, but also a slew of connections to London's seedy underbelly.  So I lied about my age, joined up, and eventually worked my way up from fake IDs to just about anything you might need a copy of."  He tossed Arthur an easy grin and Arthur tried to return it.  

"So you got into dreamshare in the military.  Huh.  I always wondered." 

Eames gaped at him.  "You mean you didn't know?  Arthur!  I'm just a bit disappointed in your sloppy methods.  I always knew your imprecise nature would catch up to you someday, I just didn't figure I'd be there to see it."

"Ha.  You are a hilarious and delightful roommate, you know that?"

"I do, indeed."

"I can't believe you made out with that poor girl _and_ her brother.  Wait.  Yes, yes, I can."

"Hey, what can I say?  Good genes in that family."

Arthur chuckled and shook his head.  Eames yawned so wide his jaw cracked.

"Yeah," Arthur decided.  "We should call it a night.  We'll fly out early tomorrow, I've got a flight plan registered to leave at 6:30, so we should make it to LA before noon.  Do you want a wake-up call?"

"When I've got you?"  Eames's blinks were getting longer and longer.  "You're probably one of those blokes that wake up 5 minutes before the alarm goes off."

Arthur rolled his eyes, for lack of a better response, and ordered a wake-up call.  By the time he hung up, Eames had made his way under the covers, lying on his back with one arm stretched above his head.  He'd chosen the side next to the dresser, which was where Arthur deposited the gun.  Eames glanced at it gratefully before pointedly closing his eyes.  Arthur retreated to the bathroom to change into his standard basketball shorts and t-shirt, but stood in the small room for a full minute, feeling inexplicably exposed.  He shrugged it off, exited and brushed his teeth before glancing nervously at Eames's prone form on the bed.  He was in the same position, eyes closed and breathing heavy and steady.  Arthur switched off lights and tried to feel nonchalant about moving to the opposite side of the bed and crawling in, while in actuality every nerve in his body was taut, every rustle of fabric and creak of bedspring loud to his heightened senses.  He slid in, trying not to disturb Eames, and thought he'd accomplished it too when Eames's voice came out of the darkness and, frankly, scared the shit out of him.

"Are those bespoke Tom Ford pyjamas, darling?  Because I expect nothing less."

Arthur could hear the smile in his voice and felt himself smile back, even as he tried to slow the ridiculous rate his heart had spiked to.  "Go to sleep, Mr. Eames."

"Mmm," Eames rolled over then, his back facing Arthur and within minutes, the heavy breathing that wasn't quite a snore Arthur recognized from work drifted over him.  Arthur had been prepared to spend the longest night in existence strung tight as a bow, lying next to this beautiful, half-naked man, where he could look but not touch.  But the combination of exhaustion, a warm bed, and Eames's comforting breathing had Arthur asleep before he could wonder what Sarah's brother's name had been.

* * *

 

Eames woke to the annoying jangle of the room phone, out of bed and his hand going for the gun next to him before he remembered where he was.  He answered and thanked the woman on the other end before looking around the room for Arthur.  He found him in the last place he expected, which was face-first in his pillow and dead to the world.  When Arthur slept, he _slept._   His dark hair tumbled over his forehead, his arms wrapped around the pillow he was laying on and Eames's heart flip-flopped at the sight.  He wanted to slide back in bed and smooth the hair away from Arthur's face, he wanted to kiss his eyelids and eyebrows and the tips of his ears and his cheekbones before Arthur grumbled and hid his face in Eames's neck and said five more minutes.  Then he wanted to keep kissing him, and convince him that lazy morning sex was the best kind of sex, until it wasn't lazy anymore, it was fast, and hard, and hot, and heavy, and exactly what they both needed.  Jesus Christ, he needed a cold shower.  

Luckily, the high-end hotel they were in apparently provided only cold water in the mornings, so he started the day off right.  When he was done, Arthur was still asleep, which wasn't really surprising seeing as how it was the fastest shower of Eames's life, so he got dressed and went to find sustenance.  He filched a few doughnuts off the continental "breakfast" that was provided and grabbed coffee and tea while he was down there.  Then he hauled the whole thing up to their room, juggling it while fumbling with the room key card and when he finally got the door open, a bleary-looking Arthur was standing on the other side, apparently just about to let him in.  

"Ah, darling, you're up!  And I had all these amazing ideas about how to wake you too."  One of these days Arthur was going to realize that he wasn't actually kidding when he said these things, and then where would he be?  Probably knocked on his arse with a gun in his face.  

Arthur grunted and reached for the coffee automatically.  

"You're welcome, pet, glad to do it," Eames said drily.  Arthur didn't appear to hear him.  Eames sighed and reminded himself that Arthur was actually lovely, if still rather formidable, and he really _was_ glad to do it.  In fact, he would trade any number of things, real or intangible, in exchange for being allowed to do it every day for the rest of his life, but that was neither here nor there.  Eames sighed again. 

"Water's cold, in case you are excited to wake up quickly!" Eames chirped as Arthur disappeared with his coffee into the bathroom. Eames listened to his movements through the thin walls while he re-packed the few things they'd pulled out of their bags and by the time Arthur stepped out, every line creased and every hair in place, they were ready.   He really did not look like a man living out of a suitcase, having just had a cold shower and preparing to break into a hospital. Give him a pair of Foster Grants and he'd be at home on the cover of GQ. Eames shook his head, handed him a doughnut, and followed him out the door. 

They spent the five-hour flight going over the knowns and unknowns and trying to mitigate risk wherever possible, but the truth was that they were flying blind. There were too many things they had no idea about, and they couldn't practice the way they would on any other job, running scenarios and testing out dreamscapes. They were going to have to rely on their experience, and their totems, and each other.


	5. Until a New One Comes Along

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter kind of got away from me and it got a little long. Happy reading anyway, hope you enjoy it!

"Oh, good, it's here," Arthur said, nudging the package with his toe as he unlocked the small bungalow.  The stale air rushed out when he opened the door, and he moved through the house, opening windows and letting in a breeze.  "Make yourself at home!" he hollered at Eames as he opened the box on the kitchen bar, tossing packaging out until he uncovered the Somnacin samples Yusuf had sent.  

Eames dropped their bags and the PASIV on the couch and looked around.  It was surprisingly homey.  He'd been to one of Arthur's apartments once, it was bare and plain without a trace of personal touch.  This, though, this seemed like it might be Home, that is if Arthur would consider himself to own anything so pedestrian.  Eames found himself smiling at the small things he noticed that he'd never have assumed Arthur would own--a low-end telly, a high-end stereo system, and an honest-to-God set of crappy well-thumbed paperbacks shoved on a shelf in the corner.  He moved to the stereo and powered up the iPod docked there.

"Darling?  These are all Beyonce songs."

"Of course they are," came Arthur's confused voice from the kitchen.  "What else do people listen to?"

"I find myself drawn to the classics.  You know, The Beatles and whatnot."  Eames shook his head, smiling as he abandoned the iPod to examine the bookshelf.

Arthur's snort was louder as he entered the living room and handed Eames a glass of ice water, which he accepted gratefully.  "I can't believe what a giant walking cliché you are, Eames."

"I'm _English_ , Arthur.  How many times do I have to explain the laws there?"

Arthur's dimples peeked out and Eames couldn't stop the thrill that ran up his spine at the sight.  He covered it by taking a long drink, condensation cool against his fingertips.

"There's a guest room on the left, that's me on the right, " Arthur said quickly, inclining his head toward the hallway.  Eames nodded and was preparing the appropriate innuendo as a retort, but Arthur was already off, all movement and efficiency.  "I'll call Ari, let her know we're here.  She should have already touched down, but I haven't had a chance to check the flight delays."

"Nothing you can do about them anyway, Arthur."

He paused.  "Good point."

Eames took his bag to the guest room Arthur had indicated to place his few clean clothes in the closet.  He made a mental note to talk to Arthur about laundering his remaining clothes and tried not to think about how it wouldn't really matter if it turned out he couldn't make it out of limbo.  He also tried not to think about how he didn't really have a lot of other preparations to make in that regard, no one to contact, not a lot of affairs to put in order.  It wasn't as if he had the most secure line of work in the world, so he'd always had a few things in place in case he didn't make it topside again.  But it wasn't anything he'd looked at so square in the face before either.  He didn't deal in odds the way he was sure Arthur did, but he always gave himself pretty good ones depending on the team he was with and the job that needed doing.  This one, though, had a distinct smell of "one way trip" all over it.  It was, in a word, sobering. 

* * *

 

Arthur stacked the samples on the counter then opened the fridge by habit.  Of course, it was unplugged and empty, he hadn't been in this house in months.  The last time he'd been here had been a short overnight because it was silly to rent a hotel room in a town where he _owned_  a _house_.  But he remembered standing in this exact spot, looking at this exact same dark, empty refrigerator and thinking, 'I really do like this house, why am I never here?'  At the time, it had been because Paul didn't even know he owned the damn house and he'd been living in that tiny apartment in Ontario.  Now, though, it was because he might not be living anywhere soon.  He might be hooked up to an IV at the Marina Del Rey Hospital by this time tomorrow while someone, probably the police, tried to notify his next of kin.  Arthur pushed the thoughts away from him forcefully and slammed the useless refrigerator closed.

"Eames!"

"Yeah!" came the muffled shout from down the hall.

"You hungry?"

He heard Eames pad down the hallway and poke his head around the doorway of the kitchen.  "Sure, darling.  What are you going to introduce me to in your beautiful hometown?"

"Oh.  Uh, well, shit.  I was just planning on ordering in, but if you wanted to go somewhere..." Arthur trailed off because he hadn't thought of that, and of _course_ Eames might want to blow off steam and do something fun on his possibly last lucid night on earth...

"No, no, that sounds lovely.  What do they have for takeout in this one-horse town?"  Eames winked at him.  Seriously, who winked?  And how could he be adorable and charming and so fucking _hot_ when he _winked_!?  No one should be able to do that, it went against the basic laws of nature.

"Well, this is Los Angeles, so...kale or sushi? Or kale with sushi?"

"Hmm. I'll leave the decision in your capable hands."

"Pizza and wings it is."  Arthur reached for his phone while Eames's laugh followed him back down the hallway.  

"Sounds perfect!" he called backwards and Arthur couldn't stop the stupid smile that crept onto his face.  Who knew that getting pizza delivered could make a person happy?

He ordered food, then checked the flight schedules.  "Eames?" He wandered down the hallway and leaned in through Eames's open door.  "Ari's flight _was_ delayed, she won't be here until late."

"Are we going to be ok?"

Arthur considered.  "I suppose it depends on what time she gets in.  We might just have her come over early tomorrow morning and go over everything then.  I've got an outline of what we'll need to cover with her."

"Of course you do," Eames grinned.  

"Yeah, of course I do," Arther countered pointedly.  He arched an eyebrow at Eames.  "You're welcome."  

He headed to his room and moved immediately to the little table next to the bed.  He moved it to the side and pressed the latch that opened the space under the floor.  From it, he withdrew a sleek box made of wood and a familiar silver case.

"Neat," Eames said from behind him.

"Mmph," Arthur grunted.  "Should have known I couldn't keep it secret from you."

"Why would you even try, darling!" Eames said lightly.  "Not that I don't have a pretty good idea, but what is it exactly that you were so foolishly attempting to keep secret?"

Arthur grabbed the slim silver case and set it on the bed.  He flipped the clasps and raised the lid to reveal a very advanced version of the PASIV that currently sat on his couch.  

Eames let out a low whistle.  "Where did you find that?" he asked, clearly fascinated.  

"Stole it," Arthur said matter-of-factly.  "Then made a few minor improvements."  

"You stole it?!  Truly?"  Eames couldn't seem to help himself, he reached over to stroke one finger around the edge of the machine.  "I didn't think you had it in you."

Arthur was not impressed.  "Eames.  I literally steal things for a living."

"Well, yeah, but you do it in such a proper way,"  he grinned.  "What's that?" he said, nodding toward the wooden box.  It was made of a dark walnut, the edges beautifully joined.

"That's her," Arthur said.  "Rhonda."  He felt himself grin, then opened the lid and removed his handgun and the ammo, automatically checking and loading the magazine.  He handed the gun to Eames, grip first, silently offering.  Eames looked surprised, then one corner of his mouth turned up and he reverently took the gun. 

"Rhonda, eh?" he said, running his fingers over the metal.

Arthur nodded solemnly.  

Eames grinned, wide and toothy.  "She's lovely, pet."

Arthur accepted it back, then set it on the little table by the bed.  He replaced the box in the space beneath the floor and re-latched it, moving everything back in place and making the hiding place virtually undetectable, even if you knew where to look.  

When he looked up, he found Eames studying him, a strange look on his face.  "What?"  Silence stretched between them for a few heartbeats and Arthur felt a flare of panic.  Here it came.  Eames was going to tell him that this whole thing had been fun, darling, but he really must dash as he didn't really fancy spending the rest of his virile years in limbo, cheers and ta very much, or however he talked.  It was really overdue if he was being honest with himself.  He couldn't really expect Eames to be invested in this kamikaze mission, there was absolutely nothing in it for him, and it was completely shitty of him to even hope that Eames would have considered it.  Arthur opened his mouth to cut him off before he even got started, to tell him that he knew what he was going to say and it was fine, really, and he'd buy him a ticket to wherever he wanted because of course he didn't have to stay around to help--

"Did you order beer with the pizza or should I run to get some?"

Arthur blinked. He dragged in a shaky breath, his nerve endings jangling.  "Uh.  No, I didn't order any."  He stood, hands in his pockets, loaded die tight in his fist. 

"Brilliant.  I saw a shop down the street, I'll just pop over there and grab some.  Do you still drink that piss water you Americans call beer?"  Eames grinned cheekily.

Arthur smiled against his will.  "You can get whatever you want, I'm fine with that."

"Oh ho!  In that case, I'm buying the darkest beer they sell.  I might just buy motor oil and see if you notice."  Eames grabbed his jacket off the couch and headed to the door.  "Back in a tick.  Don't forget to let me back in."

"Sure," Arthur said, following him to the door and closing it behind him.  Then he stood back, looking at the door for a breath before closing his eyes and scrubbing his hands over his face.  Suddenly the door swung back open and Eames's beautiful face appeared again.

"Should we have some kind of secret knock or a password or something?  So you know it's me when I come back and you let me in right away." Eames explained helpfully.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, unable to stop the slow smile that threatened to take over his face.  How was he so fucking...god.  "I think we'll figure it out."

Eames hesitated a second, then said, "Right," then closed the door behind him.

Arthur waited a few seconds, sure he knew what was coming next.  Sure enough, ten seconds later, the door swung back open.

"Darling, I'd really feel better if we had a knock."

Arthur couldn't help the laugh that rolled out.  It felt good, normal.  "Go to the store, Mr. Eames."

Eames grinned, crooked teeth on display.  "Right."  Then he closed the door behind him.

* * *

A short time later, they stood in the kitchen, each of them leaning on a counter munching pizza out of the open box between them and swigging out of bottles.

"What I can't figure out, is what the hell happened up top that caused a fucking _avalanche_ on my level,"  Eames said, laughing a little.  It was funnier now, but the memory still a little fresh to forget all of the stress of trying to outrun a giant wall of snow.  

"I don't know, but it was fucking nuts on my end too.  I thought I might not get you all to the kick."  Arthur admitted, waving a pizza crust his way.

"Really?"  That surprised Eames.  Arthur was nothing if not competent when it came to being the one watching over the dreamers.  "The projections give you that much trouble?"

"No.  Well, yes," Arthur admitted.  "But that wasn't the real problem.  The real problem was the zero grav."

Eames choked on the mouthful of beer he had.  He sputtered and coughed until he could get his breath back.  "Excuse me?  What?  Zero grav: as in zero gravity?  As in weightless floating?  Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Arthur's dimples peeked out.  "Yeah, that's what zero grav usually means.  So here I am, fighting off Fischer's projections while the entire room spins like a fucking dryer.  And then," he grins, pizza crust gesticulating wildly, "trying to contain you assholes while you're floating around behind me."

"What did you do?  How could you possibly create a drop when there was no gravity?  A kick, by definition, requires gravity."

"Oh, I know, I remember your definition demonstration."  Arthur mock glared at him.  At least, Eames chose to believe it was a mock glare.  "Let's just say it involved several, _several_ feet of PASIV line, a couple pounds of C4, and our entire team growing much closer for a short while."

Eames was trying to laugh at the absurdity, surely Arthur's intent, but he couldn't stop being bowled over by this man in front of him.  He felt his mouth hanging open and tried to cover it with an amazed chuckle.

"You are something else, Arthur."  He shook his head in amazement.  

"Me?!"  Arthur looked genuinely confused.  "You're the one that completed fucking _inception_ , Eames.  Your Maurice Fischer forge was the one that talked Robert into getting the idea, and it was your idea to do it that way!  The whole thing was fucked and YOU pulled it off."

"Yeah, I'm sure Cobb and Saito are thrilled with the job I did," Eames brushed off the compliment and then cringed.  Jesus fuck, what an insensitive thing to say.  He glanced at Arthur quickly, and the other man looked somber, but not upset.  Eames finished his beer.  "You want another?" he offered, opening one for himself.

"Uh, sure," Arthur said.  He looked at his watch.  "Jesus, is that really what time it is?  Ari's plane should have landed, I thought she'd have been here by now.  It's getting late."

Eames hesitated.  "Don't take this the wrong way, pet, but I am having a hard time convincing myself that I want to sleep tonight."

Arthur appeared amused.  "Seeing as how you've never, in the entire history of us knowing each other, _ever_ said to not take something the wrong way, I'm almost too shocked to tell you that I know exactly what you mean."

Eames shrugged one shoulder.  "Seems a bit of a waste, to sleep in preparation for sleeping.  Especially since we could be gearing up for a very large amount of sleeping if things don't go well."

They drank in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.  Then Arthur asked, "If...if it doesn't go well, is there anyone you want me to...or anything I can do...?"

Eames glanced at him over the top of his beer bottle.  "I was just thinking about that earlier.  No, actually.  I've got a few things in place that'll happen automatically, have done for years.  And no family to speak of, at least...none that I speak of.  So, no, I think it's all sorted.  Bit embarrassing, really."  He shuffled his feet, then planted them firmly and shoved his hand in his pocket instead.  He ran his fingers over the edge of the poker chip in his pocket  (rough--reality).  He'd picked up the habit that most long-time dreamsharers had--unconsciously checking his totem during times of stress.  Of course, Arthur didn't share this habit.  Part of Eames wanted to know that Arthur had some stupid annoying habit like he always left the bread bag and the butter open and on the counter, or he expected you to warm up his cold feet by putting them on you.  Not that he'd lord it over him and tease him mercilessly.  Well, not all the time.  

"That's not embarrassing.  Just an unfortunate side effect of the job."  Arthur finished his beer, and Eames smiled as he watched him collect and rinse the empty bottles before putting them in the recycling bin.  

"What about you?"  Eames couldn't help asking.  

"Me?" Arthur replied. "I've got a few automatic things too," he stated, nodding.  "Part of it involves Cobb's kids, so I feel like I should call Miles and tell him something, but..."  Arthur sighed.  "Anyway, I don't really have anyone.  My parents, maybe?  If you feel up to it.  Their info is on my phone, I'll make sure I write it down for you."

Eames nodded, then asked the question he didn't want to know the answer to.  "What about...will Paul want to know?  How do I get a hold of him?"

Arthur tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, teeth gritted. 

And Eames held his breath.

Arthur smiled ruefully.  "No, he won't want to know."

Eames grimaced for Arthur's benefit.  "Ended that badly, huh?"

Arthur crossed his arms. "You know, I  must just not be built for relationships.  Or at least, I can't find anyone who wants to be in one with me.  I think there must be something broken in me, or maybe I have some sort of stupid-about-relationships gene."  Arthur rolled his eyes at himself, smiling ruefully.

"You're kidding, right?" Eames felt a sudden flare of anger.  "You are _literally_ a genius.  You can hack into Interpol, and you know about physics, and you can fly a bloody plane for fuck's sake."

"Oh shut up, you speak, like, fifty languages!"

"I do not!  It's like...twenty.  And that's not even really a fair number, it's probably less than that," he added quickly, "because there are several languages that are close enough that you can get by on knowing just one, like Bosnian and Croatian--"

"Will you listen to yourself?!  Fuck, Eames!"

Eames's eyes dropped to his shoes and he shoved his hands in his pockets, fingering the poker chip in his pocket, running his fingers over the ridged edges, assuring himself that this was reality.

"Also, that is super hot."

Eames's eyes flew to his, searching to make sure he wasn't joking because he really didn't think he could take that.  But he found Arthur's eyes steady on his, his hands in his own pockets, waiting.  Eames thought about the years they'd worked together, seeing each other, maybe, every seven or eight months and every time he'd see Arthur again he would be hit with a wave of longing all over again.  He thought of all the times he'd wished for this moment, and knew, with certainty, that the only reason Arthur was doing this was because it might be his last night on earth and why not?  His heart broke, just a little, at the thought and he wished he were strong enough to say no and hold out for what he really wanted.  But he knew he wouldn't.  It was _his_ last night on earth too, and he'd take what he could get and pretend it was enough.  Eames took a step toward him, directly into Arthur's space, too close to mistake his intent.  Eames took his hand out of his pocket (the one not clutching his totem, desperately), and watched his fingers graze over Arthur's forearm, feeling the rough pads of his fingers skate over this small expanse of skin where his sleeves were rolled to the elbow.  Then slowly, _so_  slowly, he slid his palm up over Arthur's bicep, shoulder, the gorgeous column of his neck, and then he smoothed his thumb over Arthur's jawline.  Eames watched his hand make this journey intently, giving Arthur time and space to move away if that was what he wanted.  He couldn't quite meet his eyes, though, terrified he might find uncertainty or, worse, laughter there.  He felt Arthur lean slightly toward him and his heart slammed in his chest.  Eames shifted closer, his mouth inches from Arthur, and he could feel his breath ghosting over Arthur's skin.

" _Ljubavi moja,"_ Eames said, his voice low and rough.  He couldn't stop staring at Arthur's lips, so tantalizingly close, and, suddenly, so impossibly possible.  

"Eames," Arthur said, sounding slightly strangled.  Eames met his eyes then and saw the dark desire and heat there, seconds before Arthur slammed their mouths together.  Eames held Arthur's face between his hands, sucking and nipping at Arthur's lips and then licking into his mouth when it opened for him, the delicious glide of tongues causing a low moan to reverberate in the back of his throat.  Arthur clutched at Eames's back, hands scrabbling at the muscles there, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt.  Eames pressed them even closer together, slotting one thigh between Arthur's and feeling his hips jerk forward involuntarily.  A low groan was wrenched from Arthur as his hardness brushed Eames's hip, and Eames moved his kisses down Arthur's jaw toward his earlobe.  Eames drew the soft flesh into his mouth, as he untucked Arthur's oxford from his trousers, desperate to get to skin.  He was determined to make Arthur fall apart, to make him feel as crazy as he felt.  Arthur seemed to melt against him, his breaths panting and heavy and his fingers scrambling with the buttons of Eames's shirt.  He got about three buttons undone before Eames reclaimed his lips, each kiss hungrier and more desperate and Arthur's clever fingers fumbled uselessly.  

"Darling,"  he panted against Arthur's lips, "I've thought about this so many times."  He slid his palms around to grasp Arthur's perfect arse, fingers kneading.

"Me too," Arthur gasped, giving up on buttons and running his hands up under Eames's shirt to feel warm, taut skin.  He pressed his mouth to Eames's bared throat, licking over his pulse point and fastening his lips around the spot that made Eames's suck in a breath. When Eames's gasp turned into a whine, Arthur buried his fingers in the hair at the base of Eames's skull and tugged his head back, exposing his neck and giving Arthur better access.  Arthur let one thumb skate lightly over Eames's nipple while he grazed his teeth, lips and tongue up the line of muscle in Eames's neck.  

"Christ," Eames gusted out, "you feel so good, pet."  His hips canted against Arthur's, then again, moaning softly as their grinding became more rhythmic, each of them seeking friction.

A loud knock on the front door made them both freeze, heads jerked toward the sound.  

"Shit," Arthur whispered.  

"Hello?  You in there?" came Ari's voice from outside.

"Yeah!" Arthur cleared his throat, 'uh, yeah.  One sec!"  They stepped away from each other hurriedly, straightening clothing and flattening disheveled hair. 

Eames retreated to the kitchen, arms braced against the counter, forcing too fast breaths out his nose.  He screwed his eyes shut, fingers white against the cool countertop, his internal monologue sounding something like, "ShitFuckGodDamnBloodySonofabitchingFUCK."  

The front of his trousers tented obscenely and he wasn't sure if he should laugh or cry.  He settled for deep breathing and thinking about his third-form teacher, Mrs. Stebbins.  He prayed this would work because he definitely did not want some kind of deep-seated Mrs. Stebbins kink.   Then he checked his totem one more time.  Yep.  Just as he thought: too unfairly real to be anything but reality.


	6. If My Silence Made You Leave

Arthur wiped his hands on his pant legs.   _BidenCheneyGoreQuayleBushMondaleRockefellerFUCK.  Who the hell came before Rockefeller?_  Arthur closed his eyes and wrapped his hand around the loaded die in his pocket.  Breathe in, hold it, breathe out.   _Ford.  Right_.  Arthur focused on slowing his heart rate.  

"Arthur!  What the fuck, man?" came Ari's cry from outside.

"Yeah!  Yeah, on my way."  Arthur gritted his teeth and tried not to hate Ariadne, seeing as how she was here to help.  When he finally unlocked the front door and opened it, Ari was standing there, bags at her feet and her arms spread in a wide 'ta-da!' gesture.  Arthur felt his irritation at her slip a bit; she just looked so excited to see him.

"Arthur!!  God, you're a sight for sore eyes.  Of course, anything that isn't the inside of an airplane looks pretty good, no offense." Ari grabbed her bags and pushed her way in.

"None taken.  But what are you doing here?  I thought you were getting a hotel room."   _Assumed, anticipated, hoped,_ Arthur grumbled internally.  

"You did?  Oh no, Arthur, I'm sorry!  I didn't realize...jeeze, now I feel like an ass." Ari's cheeks flamed and Arthur felt like the worst friend on the planet.

"No, don't feel like an ass, I didn't even think to offer.  It's just that I only have the one guest room and Eames..." Arthur gestured helplessly.   _See, now you'll have to get a hotel room, because all my available beds are taken and there's no way either of them might become unoccupied at some point tonight, so, unfortunately, you'll have to go away.  Bummer, but that's just how it goes sometimes, I guess._

"Oh, Eames is here too? Great, I've been wanting to say hi!"  She dropped her bags on the couch, next to Cobb's old PASIV.  "Don't worry, I can just sleep on the couch.  I'm short, couches don't bother me."

"Oh," Arthur said, "good."

"Do we have company then?" came Eames's voice and Arthur looked to see him leaning against the door jamb into the kitchen, looking cool and completely unaffected.  He looked down at his own hastily tucked in shirt and still-askew tie and attempted to look less like he'd just been completely destroyed by a few kisses only moments before. 

"You do, you lucky ducks.  Arthur's going to let me sleep on the couch since I'm apparently a terrible listener," Ari joked.

"Brilliant," Eames smiled at her.

Was it Arthur's imagination, or did Eames's "brilliant" sound a little strained?  He tried to catch his eye, but Eames was steadfastly avoiding eye contact and listening intently as Ari relayed her tale of delayed take-offs and awful flight attendants and horrible in-flight meals.

Alright, he could do this.  Eames was right.  Arthur was a professional, for god's sake.  He didn't get to be the best point man in the business by thinking with his dick.  

"Ari, it's actually a good thing you're here, we need to go over a few things for tomorrow."  Arthur could absolutely do this, and he did not need to bang Eames to be happy, in fact, he was an expert at not banging Eames, he'd been doing it for years, and Spiro Agnew was the VP before Ford.  He's got this.

"Ah yes, Arthur has an outline," Eames said, finally meeting his eyes.  Arthur felt something zing down his limbs and knew the lightning he'd been waiting to singe him had struck.  He didn't know how he'd be able to cap this off now that it had been loosed.  He felt out of control, and it scared him.

"Oh, guyyyyys.  Do we have to do it right now?  I just got in, and I'm freaking wired, and I can't focus for the life of me."

Arthur knew he was staring at Eames and made himself stop.  "Sure, ok.  What did you have in mind?"  When he dragged his eyes back to Ari, she was looking at him with an odd expression on her face.  

"You know what?  Jeeze, I just realized.  Sorry, you guys are probably wiped out and want to go to bed.  I didn't even think of that, my internal clock is all jacked and I'm just wide awake.  You guys can sleep, I'll just watch TV or something."  Ari backed up looking a little awkward.  Arthur and Eames exchanged a look. 

"Uh...that's ok, Ari," Arthur offered.  "We actually were just saying how we aren't really excited about sleeping anyway."  He sure hoped he was interpreting that look correctly.

"Right," Eames agreed.  "It might make us feel better to go over the plan with you when you're ready.  No rush, we've just got nerves of our own, you know."

Ari sobered immediately.  "Yeah, I suppose that would help, huh.  I'm sorry, guys, of course you want to go over this as much as you can, just...just ignore me, god.  I'm so sorry.  Here, let's just..."  She cleared her bags off the couch, making room for them, one on either side of her.  It was probably a good idea, just the thought of having Eames pressed against the side of him was distracting Arthur.  "Ook, let's hear about this outline. "  She patted the couch, waiting for them to sit.

They spent the next several hours going over the plan.  Ariadne plied them with a million questions, not the least of which was, "How do we know this is even going to work?  How can you promise me that it won't be instead of losing two of my friends, now I could be losing four?"

"Ari, come on now."  Eames pleaded.  "You know as well as any of us that there are no guarantees, and you don't even have the horror stories Arthur and I have acquired after years of experience.  Shite happens, but if anyone is equipped to handle it, it's me and Arthur."

Ari crossed her arms and refused to look at him.  

Arthur flicked his eyes between the two of them.  "O...kay, well anyway, just to make sure you're comfortable, Ari, let's go over your part one more time."   _Was she actually pouting?  Did grown women really do that?_   Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.   "Hey.  Ari.  Look, you're right, ok?  We're not arguing that.  But you need to stop thinking about us and start thinking about the Cobb kids.  Those kids don't deserve to lose two parents, and if there's something I can do to try not to let that happen, I will.  I love those kids, but they need their dad, not me."

She sighed, then turned toward him.  "Yes, you're right, of course.  I'm with you."

"Good," he nodded at her.  "Ok, it's better if you don't arrive with us.  We'll each have our own PASIV, we can hook ourselves in.  But we'll need you to come in and check on us right away after we go under.  Check the lines and the Somnicin levels, like we talked about.  Right?"  He waited for her nod before he continued.  "Make sure the door's shut and no one should bother us, then check on us every 15 minutes.  You've got the layout of the hospital memorized?"

"Yes, Arthur, but--"

"I'll start the timer before we go down, so when it runs out, you do the kick," Arthur interrupted.  She'd voiced her concerns, but as there was no solving them, he wasn't going to address them again.  "The push should work, but you can try the chair drop if you want.  We will try our damnedest to get out of limbo on our own, the way Dom and Mal did, we promise.  If we do, great, we all go out for slushies afterward.  Hell, we're actually really good at this, maybe it'll take five minutes and you'll be telling all your friends about the time Arthur made you fly to California for nothing.  If not, though, the next failsafe is the kick.  If we can hear the music, it'll give us a chance to be ready for the kick, and we can pull ourselves out the way you and Fischer did.  Now, here's the part you won't like, but we are _counting_  on you, Ari.  So listen up.  If we can't do that...are you listening?  If we can't do that, _I still don't want to be stuck down there forever._ So you are going to give us as much time as possible to figure our shit out without the kick.  Dom and Mal figured it out eventually, we might be able to also.  So you leave us plugged into the PASIV as long as you can, preferably until visiting hours are over, but we'll understand if you get into some trouble.  If by the end of the day, we still haven't woken up, well, by that point it won't matter."

Eames took over, and Arthur was grateful.  He was so much better at people than Arthur was.  He felt exhausted and allowed that maybe he should have gotten at least a few hours of sleep.  

"Ari," Eames took her hand.  "If we haven't woken up by the end of the day, we probably won't.  And that's ok.  We will be ok.  But we don't want any of this to rest on you.  So we want your _word_ , Ari, that you will do as we ask."

She looked wary, and for a good reason.  "Why? What are you asking?"

Eames met Arthur's eyes over Ari's head and they exchanged a moment's mutual understanding.  They'd discussed this part at length and from every angle until even Arthur had admitted defeat, which he didn't do lightly.  

"We want you to unplug us and run."  Eames settled back on the couch and  listened to Ari sputter for a few minutes.

"So, let me get this straight.  If you're unplugged, then you definitely won't be able to get out of limbo.  Like, ever.  And you're both ok with this?!"

"Of course not," Arthur said, exasperated.  "We have no plans on that happening.  But what we _do_  want is for you to Get. Out.  We are walking into this with our eyes open, figuratively of course, and we need someone up top.   That doesn't mean you have to devote your entire future to this endeavor, no matter how much you care about Dom.  He wouldn't want that either, you know he wouldn't."

"And you think he'd be all hot to trot about you and Eames sacrificing yourselves for him though?"

"Would you stop saying things like that?"  Eames asked.  "It's not a foregone conclusion, or are you forgetting whose idea it was to go get Saito and Fischer in the first place?"

"Well, obviously I didn't know what the fuck I was talking about!  Aren't you at least a little mollified by the fact that I'm, I don't know, bowing to the voice of experience, or listening to my elders, or whatever?"

Eames looked unimpressed.  "Ta, very much.  Do you even know how old I am?" 

"Look, stop it, both of you," Arthur cut in.  "Ari, if two unconscious men are discovered in the same room as two men who had previously been discovered unconscious, that will raise some eyebrows and you need to be as far away as possible.  We will NOT be ok with you being suspected of any wrongdoing.   This is a deal breaker for us, and if you can't do this then we will do it without you.  Now, _are you with us_?"

Ari took a steadying breath, then pursed her lips.  "I hate this.  Truly.  This is the worst plan of all time."  But she had relented and they all knew it.

"Come on, the _worst_ plan?"  Eames teased.  "Were you _there_  on the Fischer job?"

Ari grinned reluctantly.  "Touché.  So...question.  If you don't make the kick, and I give you until the end of the day, how long is that in dream time?"

Arthur shrugged.  "Your guess is as good as mine.  Time works differently in limbo.  But...years, I'd think. Maybe a lot of them."

They lapsed into silence after that, each lost in their own thoughts.  Arthur felt the familiar tension in his back from having sat too long and stretched his hands above his head, sighing as the ache eased.  He ran his hands through his hair.  "Ok, the sun is coming up and we need to get ready.  Ari..."  Arthur rose from the couch and grabbed the package off the kitchen counter.  "This is for you.  Bathroom is down the hall."

Ari stood and took the package, opening it in front of him.  "Scrubs?  You mean I have to pose as a _nurse_?!  Ugh, you guys are so sexist.  Why can't one of you stay up top and pose as a nurse?  There are male nurses, you know, and--"

She broke off as Arthur hugged her, a big squeeze before pulling back to look her in the eyes.  She stood with scrubs held awkwardly in her hands and tears held awkwardly in her eyes.  Then Eames rose and hugged her too and she relented and hugged back.  He said, "I'll steal you a coat and a stethoscope when we get there if you'd rather pose as a doctor."  He rubbed her back and they heard her stifle a sniffle.  She pulled back and regarded them.

" Alright, ok, fine, but you're both assholes and I hate you both." 

"As you should."

She gave them a watery smile.  "Is it ok if I take a shower?  I just...I need a minute."

"Of course, I'll show you where the towels are,"  Arthur said.

"That's ok, I'll find them.  Hey?  Thanks.  I'm actually really honored that you guys trust me with this.  I won't let you down."

"We know."

She headed down the hall and as the door closed behind her, he could feel Eames's presence at his back.  Arthur stayed still as Eames pressed himself against Arthur's back and placed his wide hands on Arthur's hips.  His eyes slid closed as Eames nosed the back of his neck, drawing in a long breath.  Arthur melted a little.  

"So much for fulfilling your last night on earth fantasies," Eames rumbled directly into his ear.  

"Hmm..." Arthur hummed.  "S'okay.  I have plenty of other fantasies you can fulfill."  Then he froze and his eyes snapped open.  Had he crossed a line?  What if Eames hadn't wanted anything more?  Was it presumptuous to assume he'd get another chance?  He wished he could see Eames's face, but he didn't dare move out of his light embrace.  "I mean..."  Shit.  Well, that was short-lived.  This might be technically his shortest relationship in his history of short relationships.  He had been insane to even hope for anything more, this was _exactly_  why he hadn't done this before.

"I would love to, darling," Eames interjected.  "How many other fantasies do you have?  I'm going to need some specificity here."  

Arthur craned his head around to see Eames's smile and answered with one of his own.  "Specificity?"

"Specificity," Eames murmured, then pressed a kiss into Arthur's cheek, exactly where he knew his dimple was.  

Arthur turned in his arms and ran his thumb over Eames's ridiculous mouth.  "God.  You better fucking wake up, because when you do, I am going to drag you to bed and not let you up for a week."

"Promises, promises, pet." 

Arthur looked at him seriously.  "Yes, lots of promises."  

Eames kissed him then, lips and tongue and teeth and promises.


	7. Every Time I've Held a Rose

Arthur stared down at the sweating bottle in his hand.  He watched a bead of concentration slip down the glass, gathering speed and momentum, until it hung, fat and heavy, from the bottom edge of the brown bottle.  Then it fell, almost in slow motion, and spattered on his neatly pressed khaki pants.  He swiped his thumb across the label, for some reason startled by the Budweiser brand.  American piss water, he thought, and then smiled slightly. 

"What are you smiling at?" Cobb asked, settling in the lawn chair next to him.  He squinted at Arthur, then grinned as he reached his own beer across the divide between them, clinking it on Arthur's own.  "Nevermind, I don't want to know.  Here's to whatever keeps you smiling, yeah?"

"Huh.  Yeah," Arthur said softly.  Then he shook himself out of his reverie and asked, "So!  When does this party get started?"

Cobb laughed, light and easy, and Arthur was trying to put his finger on why it sounded so strange to hear him laugh.  "I hate to break it to you, Arthur?  But this is pretty much it.  She's planning on going out with her friends later, but she deigned to hold court with us mere mortals for the afternoon, so suck in as much of her presence as you can."

"Oh no, and here I thought she was just here for our presents," Arthur grinned lazily.  

"Ah ha.  I see what you did there.  Hey, I'm gonna go flip the burgers, will you grab me another beer?"

"Sure," Arthur stood, "Just one? Isn't this a girl's sweet sixteen party?"

"Good point."  Cobb turned back on his way to the grill and stage whispered, "Better make it two," and smiled widely, flipping the spatula in his hand.

Arthur headed toward the house, breathing in the fresh smell of grass and sunshine.  It really was a beautiful day for a birthday party, even if it was just the few of them.  He caught sight of Miles, settled in the shade and fanning himself lazily.  He looked a little tired, the pale, thin skin on his neck seemed to fold in on itself, they way it did with old men.  "Miles, I'm grabbing a beer, you want one?"

"No, thank you, Arthur," Miles answered, tipping a slow smile his direction, his accent drawing out the R's in his name until it sounded like he didn't have any.   _Ahhhhthhhhaaaahhh._  It was his favorite way to hear his name said, he decided.

He ducked into the cool of the house, making sure to slide the door closed against the Los Angeles heat behind him and felt a strange contentment settle over him as he rinsed out his empty beer bottle and set it on the counter for recycling later.  Why was it strange?  Wasn't he supposed to feel contented?  He grabbed the cold bottles from the fridge, letting it slam shut, and took his time prying off the lids.  He couldn't stop the thread of slight unease that settled in his gut.  Contented was how he was supposed to feel, wasn't it?  He looked around the Cobb's house, practically his second home as he was over here so much.  He could hear Phillipa's squeal and James's answering laughter float in from outside, loud despite the closed doors and windows.  The water balloon fight must be under way then.  He smiled and tried to shrug off the odd sensation.  He had better things to focus on.  He made to grab the bottles but before he could turn, strong arms enfolded him from behind.  The familiar scent and weight of Eames against his back made warmth flood his belly.  Eames nuzzled his nose into his hairline at the back of his neck, and Arthur leaned his head back on Eames's shoulder, eyes closed.  An overwhelming sense of _rightness_  poured over him, and he immediately forgot his previous anxiety.  

"Hello, pet," Eames rumbled in his ear, his fingers tracing Arthur's belt at his hips.

Arthur let out a pleased sigh.  "You're here," he said.  "I was worried for some reason."

Eames squeezed his waist, pressing a quick kiss onto the back of his head.  "And where would I be, huh?  You know I can't stay away for long."

"Well, you never know.  Every trip to the grocery store is an adventure in wondering if you'll finally meet some cute track star and settle down."  Arthur turned in the circle of Eames's arms and hugged him, resting his head on Eames's muscled chest.

Eames chuckled.  "You're in luck.  No track stars in sight."  He hugged Arthur back.  "This time."

"Ah well," Arthur said, raising his face for a quick kiss, "there's always next time.  Don't give up hope."

Eames slid his palms down Arthur's back, cupping his ass and turning his quick kiss into a longer, slower one.  The kind of lazy, Sunday afternoon kiss that Arthur so desperately enjoyed, and he gave as good as he got.  Eames made an interested noise against his mouth and tipped his head, slotting their mouths together and breaching Arthur's mouth with his tongue.  He pulled Arthur's hips into his, hands firmly on his backside and Arthur was lost.  How could he, after all these years, still crave this man like a drug?  He didn't know and didn't particularly care.  That previously sought for contentedness radiated between them, darkening quickly though with heat the longer the kiss went on.  

"Oh, GROSS.  Can't you two get a room?  Don't you have a whole house full of rooms, actually?"  Phillipa's disgusted voice reverberated in the previously quiet kitchen.  

Eames chuckled, pulling away from Arthur after one last squeeze.  He crossed to Phillipa and dropped a kiss on her upturned cheek.  "Happy birthday, love."

"Did you see my car?" she asked breathlessly.  "Isn't it _gorgeous_?" 

"I did see it on my way in, it's very nice.  How many boys do you think will fit in the back seat of that beast?"

"Uncle _Eames_!" she squawked, laughing and pushing on his shoulder.  "Stop it!"

"Don't bother answering that, I already know how many," Arthur interrupted, dropping another kiss on her cheek, his hands full of beer bottles.  "It's less than one.  And tell Pledge I said so."

Phillipa rolled her eyes good-naturedly.  "Stop calling him that, his name is _Dustin_.  I've told you that a hundred times."

"Dustin _Wood_.  What were his parents thinking?"  Arthur frowned and shook his head distastefully.

Phillipa smiled.  "Shut up, Uncle Arthur.  He's nice!  And I like him.  And he's coming over later, so don't be scary when he gets here."

Arthur glared, still frowning.  "I make no guarantees."

Phillipa flounced off and Eames steered him toward the backyard again, his hand warm on the small of his back.

"Hey, Eames!  You made it!  Did you get the cake?" Cobb called from the grill.

"Oh, bloody hell, I knew I went there for a reason!"

"Ha ha, you're hilarious."

"It's on the table.  It's cute, they did a good job."

Cobb paused in flipping burgers.  "Oh God, it's CUTE?!  She's going to hate it, damn!  Here, Arthur, take over.  Damn it!"  He scuttled toward the house and Arthur accepted the awesome responsibility of the spatula.  He surveyed the rest of the backyard as he flipped the remaining patties, helpless to stop the happy sigh that escaped.  James and a few of his friends were huddled together, tossing water balloons at each other and laughing in varying ranges of tenor and bass.  James's voice had cracked the other day when he was talking and he thought Eames was going to bust a seam laughing.

Just then Eames's strong fingers grasped his jaw and turned his head towards him.  He kissed Arthur firmly on the mouth, then smiled at him.

"What was that for?" Arthur asked, smiling back.

"What?  Oh, bollocks, you're not wearing the apron!"  Eames teased.  "Ah, well, I guess I'll be one-up for next time."

"I'd one-up you right here, but there are children and old men present,"  Arthur said, leaning towards him.

"Ooh, promises, promises, pet.  Don't start something you can't finish," Eames grinned, clearly daring him to go ahead and start something, children and old men be damned.

"You are a dangerous man, Mr. Eames,"  Arthur smiled.

"The worst of the worst," he allowed, coming in for another kiss.  But just then, a water balloon flew in and hit Eames in the chest, soaking him instantly.  "Hey!" he yelped.  "Oh, no you did not, it is ON!"  Then he ran towards the boys scooping water balloons out of buckets and pelting them with unerring accuracy.  And Arthur laughed and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The name Dustin Wood and the nickname Pledge are not, unfortunately, my creation, but rather real life. This was my friend's nickname for his daughter's boyfriend. Yes, folks, that actually happened, and it was too hilarious not to be fan fiction somewhere.


	8. It Seems I've Only Felt the Thorns

The surf slapped Eames in the face and he immediately sucked in a lungful of water and sand and started coughing uncontrollably. He dragged himself up to his hands and knees and found himself kneeling on a beach, the tide doing its level best to drag him out to sea. He got a brief impression of overcast skies and far reaching dunes before a rifle muzzle was jammed between his ribs and a torrent of angry Japanese was yelled at him.

Eames shook his head, chest aching, ribs aching, and actually his whole damn body aching. Where the fuck was he? What was going on?

The rifle wielder above him was dressed in a guard uniform, and Eames caught a whiff of too much aftershave and sea air and sweat before he head-butted him in the bollocks. Eames grabbed the rifle out of his slack fingers and smashed the back of his skull with it, dropping him unconscious in the sand. He checked the area for possible incoming backup and checked the rifle. Then he slung it over his shoulder, drug the guard up the beach, stripped him down to his pants, and stole his uniform, wallet, and badge.

Eames changed clothes quickly and headed in the opposite direction the guard had approached from, hoping it would lead him away from whatever he had been guarding. He kept close enough to the surf that the sand was firmer under his still wet shoes (the guard's wouldn't fit him) and the water washed his tracks away. He walked as fast as his battered body would allow, trying to piece together where he was and what the hell was going on. His name was Eames. He knew that. He didn't have a wallet when he disrobed, just a red poker chip in his pocket, a handgun in his belt, and an impressive array of bruises. He didn't have a mirror on him, but if his beard looked as shaggy as it felt, he might be the only guard on duty that might also pass for a homeless man. For some reason, he knew that the beard wasn't a regular thing, even though it wasn't uncomfortable. So:

  * Eames,
  * no beard,
  * no problem knocking people unconscious and stealing their things.



  
Beyond that, he wasn't really sure. But that was ok. He could be that person. It was enough to create an identity. He walked, and walked, the beach and dunes seemingly never-ending. Finally, he stopped to rest and he took off the guard's hat and wiped his brow. He'd been piecing together a few other things while he walked, and it made him feel a bit better. As near as he could figure, he:

  * understood Japanese, but
  * thought in English, and
  * had a military background, or, at least, an intimate familiarity with weapons, although he suspected the former.



He wasn't getting any memories of how he'd gotten here, or where the hell 'here' even was. He wasn't, however, inclined to be drug somewhere at gunpoint, though, no matter who he had been before he woke up on the beach. Yes, he could definitely be that person.

It was the thought of gunpoint that made him glad when he didn't see any signs of civilization that night. He turned north and eventually ran out of sand, and at the first clump of trees he came to, he lowered his aching body to the pine needle covered ground, laid his weapons within close reach, and was asleep within five minutes. When he woke, it was morning and he immediately reached for his pants pocket, and when it turned up empty, he couldn't say why it made him uneasy. He was outrageously thirsty, though, and decided he had more pressing matters to worry about than a feeling of unease. Of course he was uneasy. He was lost in the woods with what was apparently bloody _amnesia_ and an obviously rather dodgy past that involved hurting people and stealing things. Jesus fuck, if he didn't feel uneasy there was obviously something wrong with him. Something _else_ wrong with him.

It didn't take him long to find a path, and from there a road and he chose the direction that led away from the guarded beach and walked. He saw road signs with both Japanese and English ( _odd, that_ ) pointing out Gas! Food! Hoteru! a few miles away and he headed toward it. When he crested the hill, the first thing he saw was a huge cityscape that he didn't recognize. It was strange, some of the buildings looked familiar, but he was certain he'd never been here before. In fact, there appeared to be a replica of the Sears Tower next to...was that Matsumoto Castle? And how the fuck did he know what both of those were? Eames gritted his teeth and walked to the nearest structure, which turned out to be a shite gas station with a half-asleep attendant and an unoccupied men's room. When he got in there, he confronted the unfamiliar face in the mirror. _Eames_ , he reminded himself. _Hang on to that_. He poked at his not-yet-visibly-bruised cheekbones and pulled at his hair and beard before running wet hands through the whole mess and calling it good. His fingers twitched and he wished for a cigarette. Did he smoke? He must. He checked the guard's wallet and came up with a drivers license ( _American, New York_ ), three credit cards, and a twenty-pound note. Huh. Well, as far as weird days went, he didn't suppose it got much weirder than this one, so he ignored it and traded the guard's uniform for his still slightly damp civilians clothes, stuffing the uniform in the bin on his way out of the bathroom. Then between the three credit cards, he purchased $900 worth of Visa prepaid cards, three bottles of water, two sandwiches, and a large nylon duffel bag, then dumped the credit cards in the bin as well. The spotty attendant couldn't have cared less. He rang up the purchases, singing along to a heavy metal song on the radio in an American accent and smelling of weed. Well, it was good to know that some things you could count on. In 15 minutes, he was out the door and on the road again before he realized he hadn't even thought about getting cigarettes.

Eames wandered for a while, down busier and busier streets until he found a chain department store. American and Japanese accents were everywhere. He purchased clothing, toiletries, and as many of the items on the strange list in his head that he knew he'd need, because what he really needed was a new set of paperwork, and he had a feeling he'd be able to do something about that if he had the right tools. He was in the checkout line when he realized the same song had been playing on the overhead speakers that the gas station attendant had been singing along to. That was...odd. He asked the checkout girl what song it was and got an, "Um, I don't really know? Because they just tell us to scan the stuff? And so I don't really listen? Ya know?" and he ended the conversation as soon as he could. He stuffed all his items into his newly purchased duffel bag, cozy next to his concealed weaponry, and headed to the docks.

Eames asked the right questions of the right people, and found himself being offered a new set of papers for "a low, low price, a real steal, you can't find 'em any cheaper, lemme tell ya." He shook his head and offered a twenty-pound note for a chance to meet the guy who makes the papers. Eventually, he's led to a dodgy office in the basement of a bar to meet "Johnny".

He was brought to the man at the door of the office, who was dressed in, of all things, a three-piece suit. Eames's heart stopped and then triple thudded when he saw the suit, but he couldn't put his finger on why.

"And you are?" asked the besuited Japanese man briskly.

"Eames."

"What's in the bag?" His suit jacket did little to conceal the gun in a shoulder holster that he carried, and Eames suspected he knew it. It was a bloody nice suit, though.

"A rifle, a Colt Combat Commander, forgery equipment, and a sandwich," Eames answered smoothly.

The Suit appeared amused. "One minute. Stay right here."

He knocked quickly and entered the office, closing the door tightly behind him. Eames could hear voices but not what they were saying and he waited, patiently, a calm surety coming over him. This meeting, he had a feeling, might decide a lot of things for him, depending on how it went. He hadn't been sure what he was dealing with, but The Suit at the door had settled it in his mind that he might be closer to the top of the food chain than he originally thought.

The Suit reemerged with a small frown and said, "Johnny wants to know what you want."

Eames nodded once. "I'm asking a favor and offering my services in return."

"And I assume your services involve the contents of the bag."

"Indeed."

The Suit crossed his arms and leaned his hip against a small desk there. "Surely you're aware that we already have people with your...'talents', shall we say. Why would we be interested?"

Eames raised an eyebrow haughtily and The Suit returned the look. Apparently he wasn't intimidated easily. Eames shrugged. "You might not be interested. But if the set of papers I was offered like it was a deal on The Home Shopping Network is any indication, you might just need me, though."

"Why's that?"

"Ask a lot of questions, do you?"

"It's my job to know everything."

"Is it, now?" Eames was impressed with the cool demeanor of the man in front of him. He reminded him of someone. ( _Did he? Who?_ ) "You must be a very valuable commodity."

The Suit just looked at him.

"Well, as it turns out, so am I. I make forgeries. Whatever you may need a copy of. And while I can make shite papers like the ones I was offered, my specialty is generally more high-end." The words rolled off his tongue easily, and Eames was fairly sure he was right, but the man he faced looked like he didn't suffer fools lightly.

"Is that it?"

Eames was surprised at his tone, just this side of rude. "Is what it?"

"Is that all you can do?"

"Well, what do you need done, darling?" The teasing slipped out before he could think about it. He immediately felt a sense of guilt and a desire to take it back.

The Suit considered. Then he said, "Kandinsky."

Eames snorted. "That's not even a challenge. Why don't you just ask for a Rothko or a Pollock?"

The Suit smiled. "I happen to like Kandinsky," he said.

"Are you testing me or commissioning me?" Eames was genuinely intrigued by this man in a suit, who worked for what appeared to be a mid-level thug, in a capacity that seemed like an odd mix of bouncer, receptionist, and advisor, but who spoke with authority.

"Both," he said calmly.

Eames couldn't help it. He liked this guy. "I'm new in town. ( _Probably_.) You let me use your supplies and maybe your suppliers, I'll make you one. That's actually the favor I was going to ask, and the payment I was going to offer anyway." Hell, he _wanted_ to get him a Kandinsky.

The Suit nodded, once, then said, "Follow me."

Jesus, if this was the pre-interview, he might be in over his head here.

The door swung open revealing Johnny to be a young, no, make that very young, white kid, whose jeans were hanging halfway down his arse and his stringy black hair was being held back by a stocking cap. His very expensive-looking sunglasses shielded his eyes--indoors--and Eames would have been very surprised if they weren't extremely bloodshot. He had the skinny, twitchy look of a long-time drug user and sat slouched in an office chair, twirling it slightly and chatting on his mobile. As Eames approached his desk, the man said, "And then what'd she do?" and laughed uproariously at whatever the answer was. Eames caught The Suit's eye and raised his eyebrows slightly. The Suit blinked back at him, slowly, and like it took a lot of effort. Then Eames realized...he'd already had his interview. He frowned slightly but nodded to The Suit before settling himself in the chair opposite the desk. He had a feeling if he waited to be asked to sit, he'd be waiting a long time.

Turns out, he was waiting a long time anyway. In this situation, he would have normally assumed whoever it was was trying to intimidate him, or maybe put him in his place by making him wait. But this time, he was pretty sure he was being ignored because the guy in front of him couldn't be arsed to stop chatting with whoever he was talking to. Eames was a patient man, with nowhere else to be, though, and he could out-wait some scrawny 20-year-old addict. It gave him plenty of time to observe.

By the time the conversation ended, Eames had determined a number of things. He watched the kid's movements, the unconscious tics he had, the tells. He was good at this, he decided, studying the little things. The kid came from money, was probably in this position because people were scared of his dad or because they were loyal to his family. Probably both. Second, The Suit was the one running things. He had moved to the far corner of the room once Eames had sat down, pulled out his mobile, and hadn't looked up since. Eames had a feeling he wasn't playing Angry Birds. Third, the kid was a junkie. He probably started out moving shite, got excited about bigger and bigger profits, and then decided no one would miss a little product, after all, he'd earned it. Etc.

"So, Souji tells me that you're a forger."

Eames met the newly named Souji's eyes, then he glanced back at Johnny. "I am."

"Cool. Can you do, like, fake IDs and stuff?"

Eames raised an eyebrow. "And stuff."

"That's cool."

At this point, the conversation seemed to peter out, and Eames fought the urge to roll his eyes. He gritted his teeth and plowed ahead.

"Mr. Johnny, I am here to propose an exchange of goods for services, and possibly setting up a long-term arrangement between the two of us. I believe we can be mutually beneficial to each other and in my estimation--"

"So, like, could you make a fake ID for a friend of mine?"

Eames paused. He risked another glance at Souji, who had looked up from his mobile and was clearly waiting for Eames's official response. Eames took a breath and directed his response at Souji. "The best you've ever seen."

Johnny appeared unperturbed that Eames hadn't acknowledged him. "Oh, awesome, can you have it done by Friday? Cuz that's when we're goin' out and the club we're going to got busted big time by Lord Saito last month? So they're being super dicks about IDs. And Lord Saito has, like, this iron fist, right, so he's got cops and mobsters and judges and, like, fuckin'--" He had started to pick up speed and started talking faster and faster until he was cut off by his ringtone. Of course, it was the song from the gas station. Eames was beyond being surprised anymore. He answered his phone mid-sentence, and Eames knew this portion was over. He stood, and Souji walked him to the door.

Eames paused once they were outside the office, duffle bag in hand, looking at the floor. "How much is he pissing away?"

He thought Souji wouldn't answer, but eventually, he said, "More every day. Eventually, he'll kill himself or get killed, and then his dad will send someone else."

"Why don't you just do it instead?"

Souji regarded him coolly, his dark eyes sharp on Eames's. "I'm an engine, not a driver." Then he shrugged. "Besides, I don't want that kind of heat."

Eames nodded but honestly thought Souji could do so much more and didn't understand the inclination to dream that small. He was a 'go big or go home' kind of guy. "See you on Friday, then."

Souji gave him a curt nod, then turned back to his phone.

Eames headed for the exit but paused and turned back. "Hey, Souji." When the other man looked up, Eames asked, "What day is it?"

Souji appeared amused. "Wednesday."

"Ah," Eames nodded. "See you Friday, then."

Eames headed for the cheapest motel room he could find.

The song was playing in the lobby when he got there. The young man behind the counter identified it as "The Black Album, dude!" when Eames had asked what exactly it was they were listening to, and so Eames nodded like that answered his question and took his room key.

When he was finally sitting on a faded floral duvet behind a closed and locked door, he clasped his hands in front of him and allowed himself to feel somewhat safe. He sorted his new belongings, took a shower and debated shaving the beard while updating his mental list.

  * Eames
  * no beard (?)
  * no problem hurting or stealing
  * Japanese language and apparently architecture
  * English
  * military background
  * knowledge of how to forge an identity
  * knowledge of how to forge a Kandinsky (or a Rothko, or a Pollock?)
  * no knowledge of American heavy metal music



He tried to remember anything from before the beach, but couldn't come up with anything tangible and stopped before he could get frustrated. He would figure this out, and in the meantime, he had preparations to make. He wished he had his mobile, but then on the heels of that earth-shatteringly original desire, he also realized he wouldn't know anyone to call. It was a depressing thought, but there _was_ someone, he could feel it. Someone important. With that thought, the frustration built up before he could stop it and he felt an intense sense of loss.

Well, OF COURSE he felt loss, he couldn't fucking remember anything! Damn it! He scrubbed his hands down his face and decided against shaving the beard. It was starting to grow on him. He grinned to himself and knew he'd get an eye roll for that one. ( _From whom_?) The grin felt rusty and he let it slip off his face. He grabbed his gun and shoved it in his waistband, then headed to the address Souji had given him. He had an ID or two to make.


	9. A Sanctuary Safe and Strong

Arthur lay stretched across his bed, naked and blissed out.  He could hear Eames in the shower, which he'd been invited to join, but he still couldn't move after the earth-shattering orgasm he'd just experienced.  In fact, he didn't think he'd be able to move ever again.  It was a pretty good way to go, all things considered.  Oh, Arthur? He was a nice guy, how did he die?  Wow, too much good sex?  Bummer. 

He grinned, seemingly unable to stop, but he was rudely commanded to stop basking in afterglow when his stomach growled in a fairly demanding way.  He considered how long he'd be able to stay in bed before his stomach started to eat itself, but for some reason, he always had an annoying sense of _something_  that made him feel like he couldn't just lay around, that he had something to _do._ Which was ridiculous, he knew for a fact that he didn't have anything that needed doing.  Well, that wasn't true, there was a loose shutter on the west side of the house that needed to be fixed, and he supposed the lawn could stand to be mowed.  But honestly?  He was going to have to look for ways to fill the day anyway.  

Just as he was weighing the merits of forcing his orgasm-inflicted body into motion, he heard the shower shut off.  Eames was humming something, and Arthur decided he was just fine staying where he was, he'd just enjoy the show.  Sure enough, Eames exited the bathroom in a towel, a fog of steam following him out the door.  He was beautiful.  There was no other word for it.  Swirls of ink decorated his skin, his muscle definition and waistline maybe a bit more relaxed than they were in the past, but he was still so fucking gorgeous.  He saw Arthur looking and grinned wolfishly while jumping on the bed and crawling his way up Arthur's body.  He kissed Arthur, those long, slow, deeply intimate after-sex kisses that were Arthur's favorite.  Well, next to hot, frantic pre-sex kisses.  And comfortable, middle-of-the-afternoon kisses.  Actually, all of Eames's kisses had pretty high pedestals.  

"Hello, dear," Eames said.  "Enjoying the view?"  Eames wiggled his eyebrows and grinned.  "I don't think I should indulge you so much, you know.  You're not a teenager anymore."

"Humph."  ( _Had Eames known him when he was a teenager?)_  He couldn't remember. _(Why couldn't he remember that?)_ He tried to shrug off the odd thought and focus on the presentation in front of him.  "You're my husband, and so, legally, you have to do what I say,"  Arthur said as haughtily as he could manage.  "And that means that this," he ran his hand down Eames's side and gripped his ass under the towel, "is mine, and I can do what I want with it."

"Is that what it means?  I must have missed that in the vows."  Eames planted a loud smacking kiss on Arthur's dimple and rolled off him.  "Better get up, darling.  I'm making eggs wearing only my towel, you won't want to miss it."  Then he winked and headed to the kitchen.

Arthur closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose, stretching and basking in how lucky he was.  Finally, he rolled out of bed, briefly contemplating a shower but lazily throwing on a tattered t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts instead.  He padded out to the kitchen, where Eames was, indeed, making eggs while wearing a towel.  And humming.  Arthur slid behind him and kissed his shoulder.  "What are you humming?  You never hum."

"Metallica.  And yes I do, I'm the humming-est guy you'll ever meet."

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him.  "You're humming Metallica.  Since when have you liked Metallica?"  ( _Was that odd?  Why was it odd?_ )  He went to set the table but found it already set.

"What can I say, I'm drawn to the classics," Eames said offhand.  He turned and deposited fluffy scrambled eggs onto plates. 

Arthur sat, feeling slightly out of sorts but couldn't put his finger on why.  He took a bite of egg and _moaned_  because they were _magnificent_.  Holy shit, these were the best eggs he'd ever tasted. "Jesus, Eames, what did you do to these eggs?  They're amazing."

Eames looked bemused.  "Same as every day, pet.  But I'm glad you like them.  So, what do you have planned for today?"

Arthur could not get over these _eggs._  Fuck.  "Uh, I don't really have anything planned.  I was thinking about fixing that shutter and then maybe mowing the lawn.  You?"

Eames started loading the dishwasher.  "I actually already did that stuff yesterday, so I guess you've got a day off.  Tell you what, I'll put up the hammock and you can have a kip."

"Oh.  Well, I kind of wanted to, like, _do_  something."

"Need a repeat performance of this morning?" Eames teased.

"Are you kidding me?  I can't do _that_ again, I'm still recovering.  Plus, I've been reliably informed that I'm no longer a teenager," Arthur grinned, sliding his arms around Eames and kissing his tattoos.  "Hey, I've got an idea.  Why don't we go to the shooting range this afternoon?"

Eames looked confused and started laughing.  "Really!?  Why?"

Now it was Arthur's turn to look confused.  "Uh, I don't know.  Why not?"

Eames shrugged, still laughing.  "I mean, I guess, if you want to, pet.  What are we shooting?  Got a crossbow I don't know about?"

Arthur frowned, then shook his head at himself and tried to laugh along.  "Heh.  No, I just thought I'd take Rhonda and you could take your Colt and, I don't know, it'd be fun."

Eames kissed his dimple.  "Arthur, I didn't know it was actually possible to screw someone's brains out, but I'm kind of impressed with myself.  We can go if you really want, even though I have no idea who Rhonda is.  But let's go tomorrow, ok?  I've got some stuff to do around the house, and I still want to put up that hammock."

Arthur's unsettled feeling was back.  "Uh...sure.  Sure.  Well, in that case, maybe I'll just go see what Dom is up to.  Unless you need some help?"

"Nope, it's all sorted.  Go on, I'll be here when you get back."

"'Kay." Arthur shrugged and tried to push it aside.  "Well then, Mr. Eames, I absolutely forbid you to put on more clothes while I'm gone.  I expect that hammock to be put up while wearing a towel.  Our neighbors deserve no less."  

Eames laughed and pushed him toward the shower.

* * *

"Christ, I can't believe the kids are so big." Arthur accepted the iced tea Dom brought him and watched James try to ollie over the obstacles he'd constructed on the back patio.

"I know it, man," Dom agreed.  "They always say, 'Oh, it goes by so fast,' and I thought it was just one of those things people say.  But seriously, blink and they're 16 and calling for gas money."  

"No, I'm serious.  It actually feels that way." 

"I said, I _know_ , man.  And feel free to contribute to the gas fund, she's going to kill me."

Arthur grinned and sighed, leaning his head back on the lawn chair and feeling the heat bake his sunscreen into his skin.  He'd been trying to ignore it, but the little niggle of unease was creeping into his conscious mind again, and he decided to bring it up.

"Dom?"

"Mmm?" Dom said around a mouthful of iced tea.

"Do you ever feel like you're...I don't know...missing something?  Like, there's a special mission in life or a purpose to why you're here, and you just have to find it and it'll all make sense?  Except you can't quite figure out what it is?"

"Yep."

Arthur started in surprise.  "Really?  You do?"

"Yeah, Arthur.  I think that's called "life".  Everyone goes through that.  Although, I'm not going to lie, most people your age went through it about 20 years ago.  But whatever, welcome to the club."

"Club?"

"Yeah, the "I don't know what I want to be when I grow up club".  Lots of people join when they're adults.  Say, what's going on?  You and Eames ok?"  Dom squinted at him.

"Yeah, of course.  It's just that lately...lately, I've been feeling, I don't know.  Off, I guess.  Maybe I need a hobby," Arthur huffed out a laugh.  "Or maybe I need to pull another job.  Get back in the saddle."  Actually, the more Arthur thought about it, the more appealing it sounded.  There was something comforting about the research that went into a job, the hours spent going over finances and  background checks and hacking into emails.  Shit, he couldn't remember the last time he'd hacked into _anything_.  He was probably all rusty.

He saw Dom staring at the backyard with an odd look on his face: contemplative, a bit confused, a small frown.  Arthur was so good at killing a mood.  It was his special talent, really.  Maybe it could be part of his new hobby.  

"Hey, are _you_ ok?" 

Then Dom relaxed and sat back cradling his iced tea.  "Sure, why wouldn't I be?  Everything I want is here."  He started to hum a little and Arthur felt better.

Arthur berated himself for not being able to enjoy the things in front of him.  Honestly, a great friend, who was really more like a brother, who'd accepted him and shared his family with him, and an _amazing_  husband who was everything.  He didn't need to be able to break into CIA databases to be happy.  

Then he realized what Dom was humming.  "Is that Metallica?"

"Is it?  Yeah, I guess it is."  Then he went back to humming.

"Weird.  Eames was humming that this morning."  ( _That was weird, right?  Why did it seem like he should know this song?_ )  

"Was he?  You always said he had good taste, but I never believed it until this very moment," Cobb smiled with his eyes closed, head tipped back on the chair in imitation of Arthur.

* * *

It was late when Arthur closed the front door quietly behind him, lost in thought.  He could hear Eames in the kitchen, still humming Metallica.  Finally, he made a decision and headed for the bedroom, not disguising his footsteps.  He moved the little bedside table, popped the latch, and withdrew the laptop and gun case from the space under the floor.  He waited, but didn't hear Eames come in behind him and he frowned.  Then he frowned some more, because why would he be expecting his husband to genuinely sneak up behind him?  

He took the laptop to the desk in the corner and booted it up, and removed the gun from the case while he waited.  He inserted the magazine, loaded a round in the chamber and laid it on the desk next to the laptop and looked at it.  He took a few breaths, then walked to the closet and reached in the far, far back, fingertips brushing the leather he suspected would be there.  As he slid his arms through the shoulder holster straps, something shifted in his mind.  The holster fit familiarly against his side, and when he slotted the gun ( _Rhonda_ ) into it, it felt _right_.  It felt solid, and comforting, and he hadn't realized how strange it had felt without it until he put it back on.  Like a wedding band, he thought and ran his thumb over the edge of his.

His laptop was ready, but he had something else he wanted to check first.

"Eames?" he called, realizing now that the humming had stopped.  He heard footsteps down the hall.

"Yeah?" Eames asked poking his head in the bedroom.  He took in Arthur's holster and grinned at him, his face slightly confused.  "What's up?"

" _Est-ce que tu m'aimes?_ " Arthur asked, watching his face.  Do you love me?  Eames didn't lose his grin or his slightly confused face.  And he didn't answer.  Arthur walked closer to him.  " _Et pourquoi ne pas vous faufiler sur moi_ , Eames?" Why didn't you sneak up on me? And why don't you know who Rhonda is and since when do you like Metallica, and what the fuck is wrong with me?

"Is this going to be a thing, carrying a gun and speaking French?  Because I could definitely get into this." Eames reached for him and Arthur let himself be pulled into a kiss, and he kissed back, desperately, tasting his own fear.   Why did he have a feeling that something was off?  Or maybe not something, maybe HE was off.  He had these insane notions, things that seemed so obvious until he looked at them again, like Eames should know French and it would be weird if he didn't, but then...would it really be weird if his very English husband didn't speak French?  Why would that be weird?  Lots of people didn't speak French.   _Cobb_ didn't speak French, and he had been married to a French woman.  Arthur threw himself into the kiss, suddenly needing Eames more than he ever had.  He needed him to be here, needed to be with him.  He needed to drown himself in Eames, shut out everything else in the world, wrap Eames around him and never come up for air.  He wanted to rip off his holster and throw them out the window, then take Eames to bed and fuck him through the mattress until neither of them could see straight.  He wanted, God, he wanted...

"Hey, hey, hey...darling...DARLING.  What is _wrong_?" Eames was holding him by the biceps, concern etched on his face.  Arthur realized his eyes were wet.  He choked back a sob and clutched at Eames, burying his face in his neck and holding on for dear life.   

"I don't know, I don't know anything anymore, I feel crazy."  Arthur was fairly sure he sounded it too.  "Let's just go somewhere, just the two of us, ok?  We'll get on the plane, take a job somewhere..."

Eames pulled back, looking even more concerned.  "A job?  What kind of job?"

Arthur's frustration at the whole situation bubbled up.  "What do you mean what kind of job?  The kind of job we _do_.  I'm sure we can scare up a PASIV somewhere, please, just...I need this.  It's part of me, I didn't realize how big of a part until now, so just...please."

"I think _you_ need to be more passive," Eames said teasingly.  At Arthur's confused look he continued, "Look, just calm down, please?  If you want us to go on holiday somewhere, that's fine, but you're a mess, darling, you should see your hair."  He smiled softly.  "Why don't you just lie back for a bit, hmm?  We'll have Dom come over tomorrow, and we'll have a few beers, and it'll be a nice, normal day and you'll feel better."

Dom.  A buzzing was filling Arthur's head, the kind of static that builds up just before it clears.  Something was wrong, definitely.  Something wrong with him, and something with Eames.  But Dom...something was ABSOLUTELY wrong with Dom.  Something... _something_...

He let himself be led over to the bed, a warm hand on the small of his back, his mind whirring.  When Eames was satisfied he was settled in successfully, he headed back to the kitchen and as soon as he was out of sight, Arthur eased from the bed and walked to the window.  The static in his head wasn't clearing, but it seemed to be solidifying, like shapes coming out of the fog.  He eased the window open and stole quietly outside.  He wanted to reach out for Eames, needed him at his back for this, but he didn't have  _time._  He had to figure this out now.  He had a deadline, and he had something he needed to  _do_ and it had something to do with Dom.  

When he knocked on Dom's front door and he opened it in his pajamas, Arthur thought for the first time to look at his watch.  

"Oh, Jesus.  I'm so sorry, Dom, I didn't realize...I'll just go.  I didn't wake the kids, did I?"

Dom snorted.  "You cannot actually wake up teenagers, it's a law of nature.  They're either still up, or they're comatose.  Come in, please.  You look like you could use a drink."  

Arthur followed Dom to his tiny office and accepted the tumbler that was pressed into his hand.

"Now, what is going on?  Are you guys ok?"

Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, his earlier conviction withering in the face of Dom's confidence.  "Eames seems...strange or something, I don't know, maybe it's me." 

Dom frowned.  "Have you talked to him about it?"

"No, it's just little things, and maybe I'm reading into it."  Arthur hesitated, but then pressed on.  "Like, he didn't seem to know anything about dreamsharing.  But that can't be, can it?  I told him we should take a job and he asked what _kind_ of job."

"Wow, dreamsharing."  Dom sat down in his chair behind the desk.  "I haven't thought about that in forever.  I gotta tell you, I don't know that I'd know anything about it either, after all this time.  Maybe give him a break."

Arthur wasn't so sure.

"Ok, this is obviously upsetting you, let's talk about something else,"  Dom said, placing his own glass on his desk and settling back in the creaky leather chair.  "Something that makes you happy.  Come on, sit down."

Arthur dropped into the chair opposite him and took a long drink.  

"Tell me how you and Eames got together."

"You know that story, we saw the house when we were visiting you and we called the realtor right then, who was having a shit day and offered it to us for probably half what it was worth.  Remember?  We couldn't pass it up."   

"Sure, but what about before that?  Like, how did you get to know each other?"

"Through dreamshare, of course."

"But you just said Eames didn't know anything about dreamshare."

"Right?!  Which is why it's so weird!"  Arthur plowed a hand through his hair.

"Ok, alright, fine, um, maybe a different story.  How about, when did you know you loved him?"

Arthur deflated.  "I've always loved him."  A small smile flitted over his face, and he closed his eyes.  "I just didn't know he felt the same way."

"What happened?" Dom prodded gently.

Arthur's brow furrowed, thinking.  "Well..." he started slowly, "there was a night we stayed up all night, because something was going to happen and then we kissed, and then...wait, what did happen?"

"Was it New Year's?"

Arthur shook his head.  "No, something bad was going to happen.  Now it's going to bug me."

Dom shrugged.  "It's probably not important."

But the static in Artur's head was getting louder, and clearer.  "...there was something we had to do...and it was dangerous because we knew we might not make it back...because we had to go...Cobb,"  Arthur looked up suddenly.  "How did I get here?"

"I know, man, _life_.  You think it's going to go one way, but suddenly--"

"No, I mean, how did I GET HERE."  Arthur leaned forward, eyes intent on Dom's.  "Did I ride a bike?  Do I own a car?  Did I walk from the bus stop?"

"Well, how the hell should I know?!"  Dom looked at him like he was delirious.  

"No, that's what I mean!  I have no idea!"  Arthur could feel himself grinning and he stood, hands pressed flat on Dom's desk.  "Dom!  Do you realize what this means!?"

"Obviously not," Dom said dryly.  

Arthur was giddy with happiness and couldn't stand still.  "Do you still have your top?"

Dom's face clouded instantly.  "I don't think about that anymore."

Arthur's stomach was doing tiny jumping jacks and he wanted to _shake_ him.  "Yes, you do!  You're going to think about it right now, go and get it."  When Dom didn't move, Arthur moved around the desk, pulling on the sleeve of Dom's pajamas.  "I'm serious, go get it!  Hurry up!"

Dom's face was mutinous, but he went.  Arthur heard him walk up the stairs, heard the mutter of a TV in another room, one of the kids.  He had better be right about this.  He had been so sure, but a tiny niggle of doubt was creeping in, and he thought about Eames, probably stretched in their bed right now, or maybe waiting up for him on the couch, nursing a cup of tea.  He wiped his palms on his pants, grounding himself.  A few moments later, Dom was in the doorway, top gripped tightly in his hand.  

"Spin it."

Dom didn't release his grip.  "I...I can't," Dom replied stiffly.  If Arthur had been worried Dom wouldn't remember, he wasn't worried now.  "She's not here, and I finally got to a point where I'm ok with it.  I can't go back.  I've built one life without her, I don't know if I can do it again."  

Arthur faced him.  "Dom.  I know, ok?  I do."

"No, you don't!" Dom exploded, fists clenched.  "You don't!  You get _more_ time with him, not more time _without_ him!  It's already been so long...and I just want to be with her."  Dom's anger was fading into despair, and Arthur was scared.

"Dom.  Look at me.  You're right, ok?  You're right.  She still won't be there.  But you're the same man, and you _can_ do it.  And we have to go back.  You know that, right?  I have to go back, but you HAVE to go back.  They need you.  Right now, they need you there.  They don't need you here.  And think of it this way...you get to watch them grow up all over again.  How many parents get to do that?"  

Dom shut his eyes and drew in a shaky breath.  Then, with an equally shaky hand, he spun the top carefully on the desk.  

It spun...and spun...and spun...and Dom just watched.  He watched for an impossibly long time until Arthur finally reached out to stop it and placed it back in Dom's hand.

For just a moment, Dom looked lost, eyes pleading with Arthur to make it not be true.  Then he set his jaw, squared his shoulders and took a deep breath.  He nodded at Arthur and without a word, Arthur drew Rhonda and shot him in the head.  

The top tumbled out of Dom's limp grasp and rolled until it bumped Arthur's shoe.  Arthur looked at it grimly.  "Eames, you better fucking be there."  Then he turned the gun on himself and pulled the trigger.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and that Metallica song? Totally [this one.](https://youtu.be/CD-E-LDc384)


	10. That Would Be My Worst Mistake

"Yo, dude, this is bullshit!" 

Eames calmly picked up the drivers license that had been thrown back at him.  "Which part of this, exactly, is bullshit?  And don't call me 'dude'."  He set the license on the desk, carefully.

"You were supposed to make a fake ID, not re-use someone's!"  Johnny fumed.  Eames felt a smug smile steal over his face and he sat back in his chair.  Souji cocked his head.

"Can I see that?" he asked, already reaching for the ID.  He ran his fingers over the worn edges, noticing the nicks and scratches, turning it to catch the light glinting off the reflective lettering.  "Wow," he said softly, turning it over and examining it again.  "This is incredible."

"Thank you," Eames grunted. 

"Can you do more?"  Souji looked impressed.

Johnny looked confused. "More?!  What are you talking about?"  He ripped the card out of Souji's hands.  "It's just some dirty old drivers license."

Eames smirked.  "Pretty good when what I started out with was a blank piece of plastic."  He stood and excused himself.

"Wait," Souji stopped him.  "Just...just wait.   _Can_  you do more?"

Eames considered, studying first Souji, then Johnny.  "I can do better than more."

Johnny seemed to be catching on to the fact that Eames had created this license that looked no more remarkable than the one in his own wallet.  No one would look twice at it.  A slow smile broke over his face.  "You could make these and we could sell the shit out of them!"  He practically had dollar signs in his eyes, it was like a cartoon come to life.

"Yes.   _We_  could," Eames mused.  He looked sideways at Souji.  "And with the proceeds I recommend we give Souji a raise.  What is your take right now?"  

"What?"  Johnny looked back and forth between the two of them.

"Eight percent," Souji said calmly.

Eames pursed his lips.  "What would you say to 50?"

"Wait, WHAT?  Fifty percent of what, exactly?"  Johnny sat up in his chair. 

"I'd be more comfortable with 35," Souji declared.

"You'll take 40 and not a penny less.  I insist," Eames pressed.  He buttoned his jacket and moved toward the door.  Souji turned to follow him.

"EXCUSE me!" Johnny yelled, waving his arms, the ID forgotten in his hand.  "Aren't you forgetting something?!"

"Oh, right," Eames said at the same time Souji declared, "Yes, absolutely."

Souji plucked the ID from Johnny's outstretched fingers and Eames drew his handgun and shot Johnny in the head.  Johnny's body slumped awkwardly in the chair and Eames's ears rang painfully.  Maybe he should have thought that one through a little more.  Souji pressed a finger into his ear gingerly and Eames knew he couldn't hear anything either.  He gestured around the room with the gun and looked at him questioningly.  Souji shook his head and held up his phone.  Eames nodded, and together they left the blood spattered office.

Eames flagged down a cab the second they hit the street, and they recovered briefly in the back while their cab driver took corners too fast, cussing under his breath the whole time.  When he could hear again, Souji leaned forward.  

"You know Lord Saito isn't going to let this slide."

Eames hummed in acknowledgment.  "I didn't, but I assumed.  That's why I set up a meeting with him."

"For when?"  Souji, surprisingly, looked slightly concerned.

"Now," Eames replied, one eyebrow raised.  "You are hereby cordially invited to attend."  Souji didn't comment, and they rode the rest of the trip in silence.  When they pulled up to the immense tower on the far end of town, Eames paid the fare and they headed toward the lobby.

"Lord Saito, please.  He's expecting us."   

"Yes, sir.  Lord Saito is in the board room." 

When they entered the room, it was large and ornate, but with warm, golden lighting.  The influence of Japanese and western culture could be seen in the architecture and Eames wondered at himself for noticing.  Lord Saito sat at the far end of the overwhelming conference table, hands folded, eyes steady on them.  A tall Japanese man in his late 60s, he wore a dark suit jacket over a nagajuban, and he looked menacing.  Eames approached him and Souji followed.  Saito did not rise and did not invite them to sit.

"Lord Saito.  I'm Eames and this is Souji.  We are here with some information and a proposition."

Saito glanced between them, eyes settling on Eames.  "Eames," he said slowly.  "Do I know you?"

"Not yet," Eames answered confidently.  ( _Probably_.)

"Hmm," Saito said, a crease forming between his eyebrows.  He let the pause between them grow uncomfortably before finally asking, "What information?"

"We removed Johnny for you and we'll be taking over his business and expanding into the forgery market, as well as keeping up his current avenues of income."

"Johnny."  It wasn't a question, but it was.

"Mr. Kellerman's son, sir," Souji supplied.

"Ah," Saito considered for a moment.  "Kellerman's not going to be happy about that."

"Naturally," Eames inserted easily, "but it was in your best business interest.  Which brings us to our next reason for visiting."

"Your proposition."

"Yes, sir."

There was a pause.  Then, "I'm listening."

"We'll stay out of your way, you'll give us our space."  Eames supplied calmly.  "If I do my job correctly, this is the last meeting we'll ever need to have."

Saito regarded him coolly, his eyes intelligent and hard.   "And what do I get out of this bargain?"

Eames opened his mouth to respond but Souji interrupted.  "The same thing you get now: a percentage of our take, but now with less hassle and less waste.  Ergo, a bigger take."

"Mr. Souji, was it?  Mr. Souji, you have committed a crime in my fair city, which is punishable with varying degrees of severity, you've murdered the son of a friend of mine, and you've nominated yourselves capable of taking over the responsibilities I've entrusted to someone of my choosing.  I can't decide it if was extremely brave or extremely stupid for you to come here today, but I'll thank you to not be condescending while you do it."

Eames felt himself gulp involuntarily, but Souji didn't bat an eye.  "Lord Saito, my apologies for the condescension, and with all due respect, of which I have quite a lot, I'll include the fact that Johnny Kellerman was pissing away a large chunk of your profits, a fact of which I believe you were well aware.  You were planning on replacing him anyway, but now you don't have to worry about angering the senior Mr. Kellerman in the process.  By removing Johnny Kellerman completely and not just shuffling him around, as well as adding the additional revenue streams proposed by Mr. Eames, those profits can easily be doubled within the year.  And all of this without costing you a single thing.  You could have chosen a replacement for Mr. Kellerman yourself, but please understand me when I tell you that the earnings you have seen so far have not been a product of Mr. Kellerman.  As an existing component of the successful portion of this infrastructure and from an on-the-ground perspective, I would recommend Mr. Eames as a replacement anyway, sir."

Holy shit.  Souji was impressive as hell.  Eames counted himself lucky that he was the focus of a positive tirade from Souji when he could very easily have edged Eames out altogether and installed himself in the sole place of power.  From the look on Lord Saito's face, he knew it too.  

"High praise, Mr. Eames.  Do you believe you are worthy of the opportunity to live up to it?"

Eames faced him and poured conviction into his words.  "Watch me."

Lord Saito narrowed his eyes at Eames, then nodded, once, curtly.  "I will allow this, Mr. Eames, on the previously stipulated condition."

"It's just Eames," slipped out before he could stop it.

Saito raised an eyebrow.  "Pardon?"

"It's just Eames, sir, not Mr. Eames." ( _You don't know me that well._ ) He clenched his jaw shut against the crazy thought.  "What was the previously stipulated condition?"

Saito drew out the pause long enough to let him grow uncomfortable before replying, "The condition that you do your job correctly, and this is the last time I'll have to meet with you."  Eames nodded.  "You remind me of someone, Eames.  A young man filled with radical notions.  Be very careful.  It is easy to become an old man filled with regret.  It is even easier to not get the chance."

"Sir," Eames bowed, Souji followed suit, and they exited, knowing full well they were bloody lucky to get to do so.

"Jesus Christ, you crazy bastard," Souji breathed, once they were back in a cab.  He threw his head back against the seat.  "I hope you understand how completely insane that was.  'It's just  Eames.'  Fuck.  You have got some balls on  you."

"You have no idea, darling," Eames said grimly.  

 

* * *

Souji had the taxi drop Eames back at his shite hotel room, and he laid back on the faded duvet and contemplated the ceiling.  A half-finished Kandinsky was drying in the corner, the desk shoved aside to make as much room as possible next to the light from the window.  His closet was meagerly stocked with the clothes he'd purchased the previous day, minus the ones he was currently wearing, all varying articles in the same color: black.  He didn't feel like thinking much about his wardrobe, and if fate was expecting him to be a hardened criminal, the least he could do was dress like it.  

He still couldn't remember anything before the beach.  He would get odd sensations, or thoughts from time to time, like the feeling that 'Mr. Eames' was an intimate term, which was _asinine_  because what else would people call him?  He'd previously thought about going to a doctor, but that option had flown out the window the moment he'd pulled the trigger.  Thus far, he'd managed to cover his memory loss by glaring at people when they asked him something he didn't know until they backed down.  It seemed like a short term solution, but thus far intimidation had been a fairly successful tactic.  Eames wasn't terribly worried about it, honestly.  He was a quick study, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it, and he would either remember or he wouldn't.  He did feel like he was missing something, though.  Which was also asinine, because of course he was.  But maybe it wasn't so much missing some _thing_ as some _one_.  They both had a ring of truth to them, but he can't remember anyone, so why is he so sure there _was_ someone?  He'd kept an eye on missing persons reports, and no one had reported anyone missing matching his description, and no internet searches for "Eames" yielded any results.  Any.  As in, nothing at all.  No Twitter accounts, no university records, no marriages, divorces, titles, deeds, vehicle registrations, or sixth form rugby trophies.  In fact, the lack of results was somewhat puzzling, considering that was the only thing he'd been sure of when he'd woken up that day on the beach.  A beach he'd since learned was directly outside Saito Tower.  

It had been easy to use Eames as an identity, though, seeing as how it was already not tied to anything.  So his birth certificate listed him as Frank Thomas Eames, born April 1st, 1979.  April Fool's Day seemed appropriate and '79 just so he could say he'd been born in the 70's and not the 80's.  Then he built himself a back story and slipped it on like a second skin.  Easy as pie.

So he laid alone in his hotel room, staring at the ceiling, and trying to convince himself that in a world where he could literally be anyone he wanted, this was the person he wanted to be.

* * *

 

Arthur sat up with a gasp, body aching and his hand immediately scrambled for the port in his arm.

"Eames..." he gasped, clawing at the PASIV line, unseeing. "EAMES!" 

"Arthur!  Arthur, thank god.  Let me help you," Ariadne brushed his hands away and Arthur looked up, his eyes trying to focus.

"Ariadne?"  Arthur blinked, then blinked again, his vision slowly clearing. 

"Yeah," she smiled softly.  "Yeah, it's me.  Good to see you."

He felt...heavy, slow.  He had to get to someone, had to find someone... Then he heard a soft groan from the bed next to him.

"Dom!"  Arthur launched himself out of the chair toward his friend.  "Are you alright?  Did you...are you...?"

Dom's eyes were closed, but he took a slow breath through his nose.  He smiled slightly and nodded, and Arthur felt the band in his chest unclench slightly. He breathed out a sigh of relief.  Then he walked toward the small table against the side of the wall, turned his back and rolled his die.  Four.  Then he rolled it one more time, just to be sure.  Four.  Arthur embarrassingly felt the hot pinprick of tears behind his eyes and he leaned his head back, hands on his hips and just breathed.  

Then he turned to the next bed. 

"Eames?" he said softly, but he knew.  He'd known, deep down, before he'd turned around that Eames wasn't back yet.  He couldn't feel his presence, his boundless energy, his infectious exuberance.  Eames and Saito lay next to each other, Saito stretched out straight beneath the pristine and unblemished blanket, Eames a wrinkled mess slumped in the chair next to the bed.  He'd originally arranged himself so that he'd appear to be a visitor who'd happened to nod off while sitting with a patient, but he'd slid down, his head lolling uncomfortably.  Arthur went to him, unable to resist being near him, touching him, making sure he was real.  He fussed with the PASIV line and the jacket covering it, rearranged Eames's head and brushing his fingers surreptitiously through the soft hairs on the back of his head.  He rearranged Eames's hands, adjusted the large gold watch that Eames always wore on jobs, ever since he'd gotten it in Barcelona.  Arthur remembered he'd gotten it from a street vendor who'd promised them it was a real Bvlgari chronograph, and when Arthur had snorted and told Eames that he _could_ actually afford a real one if he wanted one that badly, Eames had laughed and told him they wouldn't be able to take bets on when it would stop working.  As far as he knew, it hadn't ever stopped working, but he wouldn't put it past Eames to fix the damn thing.  He checked the time anyway.  Then the checked the window.  Then he checked his own watch.

"Ariadne," he said, disapproval thick in his voice.

"I know, I know, Arthur, but visiting hours haven't been over long, and no one has been by yet, and I had a story ready in case someone came by, and I just couldn't...Ok?  I just couldn't.  I had to give you guys every chance because I know that's what you do for me, and I _know_ I should have, but I just COULDN'T."  She wrung her hands helplessly, looking very nervous as Arthur approached.  "Arthur, I--"

She broke off as Arthur swept her in a fierce hug.  

"Thank you."

She hugged him back, hard, nodding and sniffling a little.  "I knew you would be back.  I just knew it.  You're too smart to get stuck there."  

Arthur let her go.  "You did well, Ari.  I'd say you have the makings of an excellent point man." 

Ari blushed to the roots of her hair and stared at the toes of her tennis shoes.  "Oh, well...I..."  She shrugged. 

Arthur forced a tight smile, then turned to Dom.  He was still attached to an IV, although Ari had already helped him with his PASIV port, and Arthur found himself winding the lines back up without thinking, a longtime habit of being the one to clean up.  Dom placed his hand on Arthur's arm, stilling his movements.  

"Arthur.  Thank you," he said, softly.

Arthur regarded him, a dangerous, dark feeling flooding his insides.  "Dom.  I want you to understand that if you were not planning on retiring from dreamshare, you are now.  This is it, I'm done.  I cannot work with you again.  And if he doesn't wake up..."  Arthur broke off the thought, unable to articulate what exactly might happen in any aspect of his life should Eames not wake up.  He hadn't let himself consider the possibility that he would be the only one to make it back.  He had expected Eames would already be here, sitting back in a chair with one knee crossed over the other, sipping a cup of tea and flirting with the nurses.  He would tease Arthur about taking so long, and Arthur wouldn't be able to reply because he'd be working out the best way to get everyone out of the room so he could kiss him senseless.  Or maybe it would happen that neither of them would get out of limbo, they'd both be stuck indefinitely.  But not this.  Anything but this.  He looked away.  

"Arthur," Dom said, shocked and hurt.  "I don't--"

"No.  Everyone told me that you were dangerous but I refused to listen.  I just stood by while you got worse and worse, but I can't believe you told her you'd STAY down there!  Are you _insane_!?"

"Well, I didn't, did I!"  Dom said in a broken, angry voice.  "She's gone!  Alright?  Glad I could do that for you!"

Arthur choked back the vitriol crowding behind his teeth.  "Did you know?" he asked, stiffly.  "Did you know it was limbo and stayed anyway?"

Dom didn't say anything and Arthur threw up his hands and stalked to the window, jaw set, hands on his hips.  

Then, Dom said, "I didn't at first.  I was sure it was real, and it felt like years.  I mean, if I'm being honest, I'd had my doubts, even before you came along.  But then again, I'd promised myself that I was done, out, I couldn't do it anymore and I wasn't going to waste the time I had wondering if it was real or not.  Because what does it matter?  What does "real" even mean?  You're just as much  _you_ in a dream, you can see the consequences of your decisions, you can have hopes and fears, make goals, overcome obstacles.  Just like "real" life." 

Arthur's fingers clenched hard, his nails biting into his palms.  Because he knew why it mattered what was real.  Arthur had memories of kissing Eames countless times in limbo. He had felt so lucky, had _basked_  in his presence and his affection, and he'd taken for granted the casual touches, the comfortable, everyday, side-by-side life they'd built.  Then he remembered kissing Eames in real life, and he would trade ten thousand limbo kisses for one more real one.  He wanted the real Eames who wanted him back, it was all he'd ever wanted when it came to Eames.  

Dom continued after a moment.  "Anyway, once you got there, I knew something was off.  I kept trying not to think about it, but I knew.  You were different."

Arthur turned minutely.  "Me?"

Dom smiled sadly.  "You didn't wear a suit the whole time.  And, I don't know, you were with Eames, and you guys seemed so happy together..."

"Don't." Arthur spun, his face a mask of anger.  Eames was the reason he had eventually realized it wasn't real.  Eames had been different too.  Eames hadn't been real.  And it was killing Arthur that it might be all he gets.

Ari looked at the floor, Dom studied the blanket.  

"I want to go in after him."

"No!" Ari and Dom said at the same time.  

Dom glanced at Ari.  "You can't Arthur, we don't know what will happen.  Your head's a mess right now from the Somnacin burnoff, you don't know that you'll remember anything when you go down there.  You might not even get into the same constructed dreamspace and you might not even find him, ever."

Arthur looked at him blankly then walked deliberately to the PASIV next to Dom's bed.  Ari grabbed to stop him.

"Arthur!  Stop," she said, tugging on his arm.   "At least give him time.  Just give him some more time!  You got there.  He will too.  Ok?"

"If you think I'm going to sit here playing fucking solitaire while he's _lost_  in there--"

"Of course we don't think that," Dom said gently.   Arthur glared at him, but he continued, "but you've got work to do and we need you to do it."

Arthur waited, and when Dom didn't explain he finally sighed, "Fine, what."

"We're going to get me out of this bed.  Between the three of us, we should be able to get that oaf in here instead.  Then you," he pointed at Arthur, "need to fix the patient records so that he's always been here.  That'll buy us at least a little time."  

"Damn it, Dom, it's been so long since I hacked into medical databases, I--" Arthur paused.  "Fuck."  He plowed both hands through his hair and scrubbed his face.  "This is fucking with my head.  Alright, yeah.  Yeah.  Can you walk?"

"Yeah, just give me a sec."

They worked together to maneuver Eames from the chair to the bed while keeping him connected to the PASIV.  They worked on swapping his clothing for Dom's hospital gown and Arthur felt sick.  He hated that he was seeing Eames's naked skin like this.  He wanted to turn his head.  He wanted to kick Ari and Dom out, and wanted to do it all himself, but he couldn't lift Eames's dead weight alone.  When they were done, though, he slowly and methodically removed Eames's shoes, first one, then the other.  Then his socks, rolling them and placing them inside his shoes.  He folded his slacks and shirt neatly, tucking the poker chip and watch safely in the front pocket.  He ran his thumb over the small groove on Eames's ankle, the indention of his sock, then felt like a peeping tom and stopped.  He wrestled the blankets over his still form, tucking him in gently.  Then he sat in the chair next to the bed, elbows on his knees, and tried to think.  He tried to consider logistics, exit routes, getaway plans.  He was trying to remember the layout of the hospital when he suddenly all he could see were the pictures he and Eames had hung in the hallway of their house.  He had all these _memories_ , they kept crowding him, pushing.  He shook his head and tried to calculate dream time compared to time topside, and how Eames and Saito's body composition and Somnacin levels compared to his and Dom's, but the equations kept sliding away from him and all he could see was Eames kissing his hip and looking up at him through dark hooded eyes.  Then he could see their lumpy couch and the glow of the TV, the warmth of Eames's arm across his shoulders, his hands running idly through his hair.  Then they were slow dancing in their living room, Eames smirking at how sappy he was being.  " _It's our anniversary, asshole_ ," Arthur had said, scowling.  " _Ah, spoken like someone truly besotted,_ " Eames had laughed, then kissed the wrinkle between his eyebrows.

"Fuck."  Arthur pressed his thumbs into his eyebrows, hard.  He had to get out of here.

"Arthur?" Ari asked tentatively.  He looked up.  She was holding his laptop under her arm, his keys dangling from her fingers.  "You ok?"

"Yeah," he said grimly.  He took the computer from her, re-pocketed his keys.  He'd forgotten he gave them to her.  "Just let me work."  He checked his watch, then the Somnacin levels on the PASIV.  He contemplated Saito's face, smooth and unlined, and hated him a little.  He knew it was irrational, that Saito was a decent man (as long as you didn't have something he wanted).  He just hated everyone a little right now.  He unfolded his laptop and dove in.  He had work to do.


	11. It’s Just as Well for All I’ve Seen

" _Well, tell them to run them again!_ " Eames yelled in Japanese into the phone.  " _Yes, of course it does.  Yes.  Just make it work_."  He slammed the phone back on the hook as Souji walked in, file in one hand and his jacket in the other. 

"The plates wrong again?" he asked Eames, setting the file on the sleek desk.

"Jesus fuck.  Can I just get, like, ten more of you?"

Souji smiled.  "You should be so lucky."

Eames bit back the smirk and the innuendo that wanted to bubble up out of him.  He, unfortunately, had a reputation to uphold, one which flirting with his subordinates did nothing to maintain.  He frowned at the phone instead and poured himself a drink from the decanter on his desk. 

"Are you going home anytime tonight, sir?" Souji continued, unaware.

Eames glared at the drink.  "Yeah, eventually."  He could feel his jaw ache from where he'd been clenching it all day.  He swirled the amber liquid in the glass in his hand, then threw it back in one gulp.  He savored the burn as it slid down his throat and rolled his shoulders.  He sensed movement in front of him and looked up to see Souji sliding his jacket on, eyeing him warily.  "What?" he asked brusquely.

"Nothing, sir.  I was just going to head home, Yumiko's waiting for me."  He hesitated.  "Just wanted to check and see if you needed anything before I go."

Eames was studying a paper and didn't look up.  "No."  He switched to another paper.  When he looked up, Souji was still standing there.  "Bloody hell, WHAT."

Souji looked embarrassed.  "Look, I didn't want to bring it up but Yumiko will kill me if I don't at least ask...are you...seeing anyone?" he grimaced.  

Eames stared at him.  "What?"  He wanted to laugh, wanted to throw his head back and let it roll out of him until he was exhausted, but instead he presented the unreachable and hateful persona he'd carefully cultivated.  "Why does she want to know that?"

Souji, usually calm and unrufflable, was actually blushing, and talking very fast.  "We're supposed to go to this thing tonight, we have tickets, and she has a friend who was...well, it doesn't matter.  I was just supposed to ask if you wanted to come with us."  He took a breath and seemed to settle a bit.  "You look like you could use a break, sir."

Eames waved his hand dismissively, already turning back to the files on his desk.  "I don't have time for that.  Those plates were supposed to be done tomorrow so we could start printing next week.  Now I'll have to figure something else out.  What's in the file?"

Souji cleared his throat.  "Quarterly report.  I sent it to Lord Saito's office this morning, thought you might want a hard copy."

"I do, yeah."  Eames huffed out a dry laugh.  "We must be the only criminals on the planet that prepare and present a quarterly report."

"Absolutely untrue.  There are a lot bigger criminals than us wearing far nicer suits in much bigger offices."

"A nicer suit than this?" he asked, gesturing to his bespoke black-on-black and raising an eyebrow.  At Souji's smiled acknowledgment he continued, "Anyway, their jobs are technically legal."

"So is yours, technically.  On paper, you're as straight as an arrow."

"That's because I made the paper."

Souji smiled widely.  "Yes, but you're the one that failed to put "Kingpin" on your business cards, so if that's what you wanted, that's your own fault." 

"All right, all right.  Get out of here."  As Souji turned for the door, Eames asked before he could think better of it, "Souji?  Yumiko's friend...what's his name?"

"Ah...it's...um...her name, actually.  Sir."

"Ah."  And this was why he didn't talk to people.  

"Sorry, sir.  I didn't know."

Eames shook his head, corners of his mouth turned down.  "Nothing to know.  Go on, have fun.  Spend some of the money you earn."  

"Yes, sir."  Souji closed the door behind him and Eames settled into his chair with the report.  In the year since he'd taken over the business, he'd almost, but not quite, met Souji's prediction of doubling profits.  Eames shook his head, biting his bottom lip.  His imagination ran, looking for ways to possibly diversify and fill that gap.  It niggled at him, that missing percentage.  He made notes as the light behind him dimmed, and when his floor to ceiling windows no longer let in enough light to write by, he stood to turn on the lamp beside his desk.  His legs ached as he stood, and he stretched for a moment.  

Ever since he'd taken over, he and Souji had been a well-oiled machine.  Well, Souji had been well oiled, he'd just been a machine.  He'd worked nearly non-stop and he felt like a bull in a china shop at first.  But in a classic case of "fake it 'til you make it", he'd managed to not bumble around in the china shop, and instead bulldozed straight through it.  And then the one after that.  Yes, things got smashed, and a few people too, but things also got done. 

He could see gaps in his production line, as it were, but in order to fill them, he'd have to use Lord Saito's men, which would cost him.  If it was going to cost him, he'd prefer it be in money and not in favors.  Saito was a hard man to pay off otherwise.  Eames found himself grasping the poker chip in his pocket, a nervous habit of running his thumb over the smooth edges when he was thinking.   He forcefully withdrew his hand, and told himself he really should just get rid of the thing, he used it like a bloody dummy, reaching for it when he needed comfort.  He had started to throw it away several times, but in the end, he just couldn't bear to part with the only thing in existence that came from before the beach.  Eames was feeling restless, he needed to move, needed to get the blood flowing so he could think.

He crossed to the corner of the room and took off his black silk tie and laid it on the chair nearby.  Then he slid off his black jacket and the black oxford underneath, carefully draping them over the arm.  Expertly, he wrapped his hands and slid on the gloves he kept here and approached the heavy bag hanging in the corner of his office.  He breathed deep, clearing his mind.  Then the silence of the room was shattered as his glove smacked the bag, and he exploded in a whirlwind of lightning quick jabs.  He concentrated on speed and movement, then shifted into hard, intense shoulder punches, power generating up from the floor through his feet and hips.  It rippled out of him, waves of frustration, and he focused on beating down his formless sense of defeat.  Left, jab, right, punch, left, ribs, bend knees, chin.  He let it roll on, clouding his eyesight and taking over his hearing.  Some days he couldn't shake the ever-present feeling of _missing_ something (someone) and it would build and build until he felt like his head would split.  He had hung the bag as a deterrent to punching his employees.  He would lose track of time, picturing body shots and hearing bones break. 

Finally, he stilled the bag and rested his head against it, trying to catch his breath and removing his gloves.  Sweat dripped off him and he grabbed a towel from the en-suite bathroom but paused in front of the mirror.  He frowned.  Was his hair...shorter?  He'd had a fleeting thought that morning about getting a haircut, but...he shook his head, hard, and sat down at the desk again, still breathing hard.  He had better things to think about.  He jotted thoughts down before he could lose them and when he was done, he sat back, poured himself three more fingers of scotch and re-read what he'd written.  He scowled.  He needed to meet with Saito.  It was the last on a long list of things he didn't want to do, but if he planned on moving up in this business at all, the only way was through Saito.  He wasn't getting any bigger slices of the pie without it, and he could put it off but eventually, it was inevitable.  However, he was not about to show up with his hat in his hand, begging for scraps.  He finished his scotch and re-dressed, quickly and efficiently.  He thumbed through his contacts and made the call to set up the appointment.  He would meet with Lord Saito tomorrow; there would be no begging.  At least, not from him.

He headed to his small apartment, all clean lines and simplistic contemporary furniture.  He hated it.  But he was rarely here, and it suited the person he was supposed to be, so he left it and tried to ignore it.  He changed out of his suit, brushed his teeth, and stood in the entrance to the bedroom. Then he wrapped his calloused hands around the chin-up bar that spanned the doorway and hauled himself up.  He held it for a count of three, then he lowered himself, slowly. Again.  One...two...three... Again.  He lost himself in the rhythm, lost count of how many he'd completed, and stopped only when his arms were shaking too hard to continue.  He dragged himself through the shower and collapsed on the bed, praying for sleep without dreams.  No matter what he did, most nights his head swirled with half-remembered snatches of conversations with people he couldn't identify, forgotten seconds after he awoke in a panic, covered in sweat.  He never got a chance to examine the dreams, try to recognize faces out of the fog or hear music in the static, they faded too quickly.  He had a rule that if it happened twice in one night, he got up and went for a run, or did crunches, or got really, really drunk.    

Eames lay on his too-big bed with his arm pressed over his eyes and calculated how many more years he could realistically expect to stay alive in this business.  It seemed like a relatively small number but felt like a long, long time.  If this is what he was like now, he shuddered to think what he'd be like then.  He didn't know how much longer he could do this, though, how much longer he could be this person.  He had an unshakable feeling that he was supposed to be someone else, an unnameable desire to _do_ something, something constructive, to get his shit figured out.  But he was already doing everything he could think of, and the futility of it all stretched before him, a yawning abyss of fruitlessness.  He multiplied in his head to see how many more nights he'd be struggling through this exact. Same. Routine. and wanted to weep.  And all in the name of making money for Lord Saito.  Well, frankly, Saito could kiss his bloody arse.  He didn't really want to sludge through all this for _himself,_ let alone some old man who didn't give a damn if he lived or died.  Something had to change.

The next morning, he dressed in his favorite suit, all beautifully tailored pieces in the same shade: black.  He combed his beard, tucked his gun into his waistband, and steeled himself for what was to come.  When the taxi reached Saito Tower, he reminded himself that this was a means to an end, nothing more.  Then he entered the building.  The receptionist pointed him toward the same boardroom he'd been in the only other time he'd been here, and Lord Saito was seated in the exact same place, looking nearly identical to the time he and Souji had made the biggest gamble of their lives.  Every other risk he'd taken was small potatoes compared to the odds of that first meeting going well.  It was a good thing he didn't know it at the time, or he'd never have gone.

Eames strode toward him, calmly and confidently, but not _too_  confident.  He didn't want to put Saito on the defensive right away.  Better he thinks he had the upper hand, that Eames was another cowed peon.  The body man standing unobtrusively in the corner met Eames halfway, patting him down quickly and relieving him of his gun.  He quickly ejected the magazine, pocketed it and then handed the gun back to Eames.  Eames raised his eyebrow at him, but accepted it with a nod and placed it in his waistband again.  Saito waved the bodyguard away and, this time, gestured to the chair to his right.  Eames sat, unbuttoning his jacket and crossing his legs.  

"Lord Saito, thank you for agreeing to meet me."

"I can only assume that you're here because you've broken our agreement.  Are you not doing your job correctly, Eames?"

Eames flashed a tight smile.  "On the contrary.  I'm here for the opposite reason."

"Ahhh, I see," he said slowly, leaning back in his chair.  "You believe you're doing well and deserve recognition of that."  Saito's eyes glittered menacingly.  "How very...sanguine of you."

Eames looked at the man in front of him, with the talent he'd carefully honed over the years, gathering the tiniest details.  Saito was not a man to fuck with, that much was obvious.  He had built this empire from nothing but the blood of his enemies and the sweat of the men who worshiped him.  But Eames could recognize regret when he saw it.  It took one to know one.

"Lord Saito," he started slowly, "I have an offer, something I can do for you.  It's quite a business venture, I'm sure you'll be interested in hearing it."

"Oh, do go on.  I'd be _delighted_ to indulge you."  His tone said no such thing.

Eames stilled and looked Saito in the eye.  The two men regarded each other calmly, then Eames mentally shrugged his shoulders. Fuck it. Thirty odd years of bad dreams stretched before him, 10,950 nights of waking up, bereft, alone, and unfulfilled and he decided he'd like to move it along. He said, "My proposal is this.  I'm going to overtake your company and all the holdings you have in this town.  Then I'm going to break it apart and sell it off, piece by piece until it resembles nothing like what you currently have.  Then, once it's dismantled, I'll begin to put my own ventures in place of your old ones."

Lord Saito appeared reluctantly amused in the face of Eames's sincere statement.  "Is that right?"

"Yes."  Eames's voice was hard, unflinching, and Saito's hackles started to rise.

"Son, you have no idea what you're dealing with."  His voice was low and quiet.  "I suggest you stop right now while I'm still willing to retaliate only for your youthful ignorance."

"That won't be necessary," Eames said smoothly.

Saito paused, clearly thrown by the lack of fearful scurrying.  "Eames, let me remind you that I have been in the particular game for _years_.  In fact, I _created_ this game.  You will not win here."

"Well then, I suggest a change of rules," Eames cut in coldly.  

Saito leaned forward, clearly done with this conversation.  "I invented the rules, Mr. Eames."

"Well then, I suggest a change of players."  With that, Eames drew the gun from his waistband and shot Saito between the eyes.  "And don't call me that."

The bodyguard rushed back in the room barreling toward Eames and he rose smoothly from his chair.  Left, right, gut, ribs, chin, crunch, crunch, drop.  The bodyguard was a whimpering puddle on the floor and Eames had barely broken a sweat.  He felt slightly disappointed.  "You forgot the bullet in the chamber, you dumb shite."  Then he pulled the bodyguard's own gun and shot him.  He crossed to Lord Saito's body and pulled the pocket square from his suit, wiping his face and beard.  Then he placed his (now) empty gun in his waistband, kept the safety off the other, and left.  He paused by the reception desk, letting the woman there know that they'd need a cleanup in the boardroom and that he'd be upstairs if she needed him.  She just nodded dumbly and watched him take the elevator to the penthouse, which the egotistical bastard didn't even have security on.  Eames did a quick tour of the ornate and excessive rooms, then called the only person there was to call.  A man whom he trusted reluctantly, believed absolutely, and valued more than anyone realized.  His friend.  

"Souji.  No, I apologize for bothering you on your day off.  I just wanted to let you know that you've been promoted.  How does it feel to be at the top of the food chain?"


	12. And Still I Feel I've Said too Much

Arthur worked. He was fastidious and careful and meticulous and he hated everyone. He hated Dom, for getting into this mess and dragging him along with him. He hated Saito for tagging along when he wasn't wanted or needed and getting fucking shot. He hated fucking Fischer for escaping unscathed and unaware when Arthur's world was splintering around him. He hated Ari too, for refusing to leave him and instead allowing him to wake up to this. And he hated Eames. He hated the arrogant asshole for insisting on coming with him, and following him blindly, and kissing him an insufficient number of times, and for being so fucking irritating, and for  _not waking up._  How was he supposed to just sit here, typing on a laptop, like that would fix it? How could he do anything normal after this?  Was he really going to be able to go about his day and not think about Eames lying here?  How could he go to the grocery store, sweep the floor, take a fucking  _job_?!  Arthur forced back the bile rising in his throat and slammed the laptop shut. 

He was alone in the room unless you counted the still forms in the beds beside him. He couldn't remember where Dom and Ari had gone, and he didn't remember how long ago they'd left, and he didn't give a shit.  He stood, creakily, and checked the PASIV, for the thousandth time. He brushed unnecessarily over plastic, metal, cloth, skin, hair.  He twined his fingers with Eames's thick, unresponsive ones and drew a shuddering breath. He remembered these fingers stitching him up after he got knifed during a job gone bad in Cairo. He remembered them flipping his poker chip back and forth over his knuckles when he wanted to distract people from what he was saying (or wasn't saying).  He remembered them running lovingly over his body, remembered them sliding the wedding band on his finger... _fucking fuck, stop it._   He squelched the (fake) memories, focusing on what he knew was true and real and still worth holding on to. Eames whispering "specificity" against his mouth during the final, frantic kiss they exchanged minutes before walking into the hospital, PASIVs in hand. Of the wink Eames had given him, right as he'd pressed the button and left Arthur alone in a hospital room.   He knew these memories, leaned into them for strength.  He envisioned a lifetime of trying to sort out fake memories of Eames that Eames would never remember and suppressed a small shudder.  He looked at  ~~his husband~~ ,  ~~his lover,~~  his friend.  "Eames..." he started, his voice breaking.  He blew out a breath.  "Eames."  Arthur gripped his hand tighter.  "I know you can't hear me, but I need to say this.  In case..." he paused and squeezed his eyes shut.  "I mean, I'm going to say it again when you wake up.  I just need you to know that you are  _so_  important to me and I can't--"

A small gasp of air made Arthur's eyes fly open.  "Eames?" Arthur whispered, searching his face desperately, but he looked the same: unconscious, unmoving, a shadow of the hurricane that was Eames.  Arthur's heart was pounding so hard he almost missed the sound of the slide of fabric from the next bed.  He whipped his head toward it to see Saito looking around frantically and trying to sit up.  "Hey, hey, hey.  Saito.  Saito, it's ok."

Saito croaked something that sounded like, "It's Lord Saito," then his eyes focused on Arthur.  "Arthur?  Where...where am I?"

Arthur carefully explained, but all the while he couldn't tear his eyes away from Eames, waiting, hoping.  "You're in the hospital, in Los Angeles.  You didn't make it out of limbo right away, but the Fischer inception is complete."  Eames didn't move.  "Cobb woke up a little while ago."  Eames still didn't move.  Arthur realized he had Eames's fingers tangled in a vice grip and forced himself to relax them slightly.  He glanced at Saito.  "What happened?  Where's Eames?"

Saito was blinking at the ceiling.  "I was dreaming," he said softly.  "I was  _dreaming._ "  He unconsciously reached for his chest.  "I was shot.  And then I was in the hotel, and then I was...Am I still dreaming?" He looked at Arthur, glaring slightly.

Arthur fought the urge to scream, throw things, shoot people. He gritted his teeth instead.  "There is literally nothing I can say that would convince you that you're not."

Saito opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment, Dom and Ari walked back in the room.  "Cobb," Saito said, even though it sounded like more of a question than a greeting.

Dom said nothing, but walked over to Saito's bedside table and withdrew the top from his pocket.  He spun it once, and no one moved until it toppled, then lay there, still and unassuming.  They had all seen Cobb complete this move countless times in the warehouse, watching it settle on its side before spinning it again, and maybe again.  Now, though, he pocketed it and faced Saito.  "Welcome back," he said calmly, eyes never leaving his face.

Saito nodded, then asked, "Does anyone have my phone?"  Arthur fished it out of the drawer in the bedside table and handed it to him, and he accepted it with another nod.  He dialed, then had a short conversation in Japanese before hanging up and looking pointedly at Dom.  "It is done."

Dom nodded his thanks and Arthur realized they were all an awful lot richer, Dom was free to go home to his kids, Ari was free to go back to her shit boyfriend, and Saito had a global monopoly to run.  And he had never felt more suffocated in his life.  Eames lay there, still attached to the quietly wheezing PASIV, still breathing slowly, heavily, in his not-quite-a-snore way and Arthur thought he might legitimately be losing his mind.  He felt himself spinning out of control and backed slowly to the door before clenching his jaw so hard his teeth hurt.  He stalked out of the room, the ward, the hospital and found himself sitting in a small garden, staring blankly at the row of bricks with their engraved sponsor names and trying to remember the last things Eames had said to him.  He felt someone come up behind him and he turned, bracing himself to explain to Dom that he was fine, really, that he had it together, and to go ahead and call Miles, get back to his kids, he'd take care of everything else.  But instead of Dom, it was Ari, and at her quiet pity Arthur felt the ridiculous urge to ask what she was doing out there.  Instead, he heard himself blurt out, "I can't remember the last thing he said to me."  Ari said nothing, just took another step closer to him.  "In real life, I mean.  I remember everything from limbo and I can't..." he felt himself start to slip.  Either a laugh or a scream was building up in his throat and he knew that he needed to stop talking or it was going to spill out.  

Ari looked like she didn't know what to do with her hands.  Had Arthur been less tense or perhaps just less  _Arthur_ , she would have hugged him, or held his hand.  As it was, she ended up sitting on the low wall and clasping them between her knees.  "Arthur," she started softly, "Saito said Eames was the one who shot him, but neither of them remembered they were dreaming."

Arthur's eyebrows drew together.  "So, he didn't know he was dreaming, but he shot Saito anyway?  Why?"

Ari fidgeted.  "That's what I asked, and Saito said he...wasn't himself." 

Arthur waited.  Ariadne lifted one shoulder and gave him a look that said, 'I don't know, that's all the information I have.'  Arthur tried to curb his irritation, his fist tight around the die in his pocket, the corners digging into his palm.

"What was it?" Ari asked suddenly.

"What was what?"

"What was the last thing he said to you in limbo?"

Arthur huffed out a non-laugh and just when it seemed he wasn't going to answer at all, he said, "It was about Dom."

"About getting him out of limbo?"

"No," he said woodenly.  "It was about asking him to a barbecue and having a beer so things would go back to normal.  Jesus, my head is a fucking mess.  I can't keep things in limbo straight from things that happened here.  I have all of these  _memories_ , and none of them happened.  What if I slip up and start talking about something that he wasn't actually there for?  What am I going to say to him about that?  What is he going to remember about me when he wakes up?"  Arthur paced as he talked, sitting, standing, hands gesturing, a constant blur of movement like he couldn't handle being still.

"I don't know Arthur, but I do know that hiding down here isn't helping, and I've work to do and so do you.  So let's focus on what we can do in the next 10 minutes and after that, we'll focus on the next 10.  Ok?"

Arthur's jaw worked, words unable to escape between clenched teeth. He stood with his back to her, seeming preternaturally still compared to his previous momentum. 

"Here, I brought you this," Ari said firmly. She held out his broken-in Moleskin, well used and road-weary, but with plenty of room left to write.  "You have work to do," she repeated.  "And he needs you.  And when he wakes up, which he  _will_ , he's going to need you then, too.  No matter where he is right now, he's going to need you when he comes back."

Arthur knew she was right, but he still hesitated with his hand on the Moleskin.  "Ari...if he doesn't wake up--"

"He WILL, Arthur," she gripped the book tighter, pulling it back to her and forcing him to look her in the eye.

Arthur looked back, his eyes hard.  "If he doesn't, Ari, I'm going in and you can't stop me."

Ari's lips thinned, but she eventually nodded and released the notebook.  And when they were walking back to the room and she slipped her small hand in Arthur's, he didn't let go.

* * *

The business was going well.  He'd gotten the reports to prove it.  Eames sat in the board room anyway, at the end of the obscenely large conference table, stroking his beard and glaring at the man in front of him.  He was young, wearing a cheap suit and stuttering through the conversation in frankly painful Japanese, but Eames felt no inclination to switch to English to accommodate him.  He was eager, capable, intelligent, and not bad looking either.  But Eames didn't feel anything when he looked at him except tired.  He let him wear himself out before letting the silence drag on and giving him time to stew.  Then Eames made a few vague threats, granted his benevolent permission, and watched him scurry away.  Was this how Saito had lived?  He had thought that once he was on top, the relentless feeling of not-living-up-to-his-potential, and not-doing-what-he's-supposed-to-be-doing, would dissipate.  But when it didn't, he had kept trying, kept climbing, and now, even though Saito is gone, he still doesn't feel like he's fulfilled what he's supposed to become.

Eames sighed.  He looked at the heavy bag he'd had hung in the corner, the gloves hanging from a nearby hook.  Not long ago, when he started to feel like this, he'd grab the gloves and pound out some of his frustrations.  Now, though, he just wanted to go back to bed.  Last week he'd notified Donna at the front desk that he was going home with a migraine, then he'd slept for 17 hours.  Then he'd stayed awake for 24.  Souji had long since stopped expecting him to keep anything that resembled a normal schedule and had taken to adding notes to the ones Eames kept in the Moleskin on his desk as a way to communicate with him.  

He headed back to the penthouse now, his bodyguard following him silently and posting himself unobtrusively outside the door.  Eames jotted two sentences in the Moleskin regarding the meeting, then sat at the desk and allowed himself to become comfortably numb.  He fluctuated between bouts of frantic productivity and almost catatonic lethargy.  He could feel the lethargy seeping in, darkening his vision around the edges, settling over him like a lead vest.  It would pass, though.  It always did.

* * *

 

In the chair by the bed, the room quiet and dim, machines beeping, the PASIV whirring, Arthur sat rolling his Moleskin in his hands.  The pages had long since been filled with equations, tasks, contingency plans, and a list of the reasons it was a terrible idea to hook himself up to Eames to pursue him relentlessly through unconstructed dream space and rip him out of it by sheer force of will.  The leading reason being that Ari had dumped a huge dose of Somnacin in his bloodstream when the dose he'd administered to last until the end of visiting hours ran out, and his first equation had been to calculate how long it would take his body to burn it off. He checked Eames's watch, which he'd wound around his own wrist. He needed at least two more hours before even he would risk it. He twisted the notebook again. 

"Well, Eames, if you were awake and I told you we had two hours to kill, I know exactly what you'd say," Arthur said, his voice loud in the empty room. He felt silly talking to Eames because he's been in dreams enough times to know that Eames wouldn't be able to hear him. Still, his voice skittered out of him nervously, and he just kept talking and twisting.  "Do you remember that time we were in Minsk and you were trying to quit smoking?  God, you were being such a dick and driving everyone crazy.  I brought in a box of donuts and a box of nicotine gum and you were so pissed.  You kept getting in my face and I finally yelled at you that you should fight someone or fuck someone but leave the rest of us out of it.  Remember?  I thought you were going to deck me." Arthur smiled ruefully.  "You always did seem more inclined to go with the former rather than the latter when it came to me.  And I always seemed to keep falling for you at the most inconvenient times."    

Arthur put the notebook down and crossed the floor to stand by him.  He reached out a finger to stroke the place where Eames's wedding ring had been, angry at himself for wanting this so badly.  "I have all these stories that you would love, but I keep telling myself that they're not real.  So I'm going to forget about them and tell you stories that you'll remember."  His voice got quieter and quieter as he spoke until he was barely above a whisper. "Except...except for this one. Because, well, because it always made you laugh.  And I just...So, we took the kids ice skating one Christmas. They were so excited to go, they were talking about it non-stop for a week and Dom kept texting me death threats because we'd told them "too soon". He was so sick of hearing about it, I thought he wouldn't even go, just drop them off and run. But he did, laced up a pair of skates and went out there with James on one hand and Phillipa on the other.  And he was fucking awful at it.  It became pretty obvious that he was holding their hands to keep himself up and you were giving him a bunch of shit about it.  The world's greatest extractor, wobbling around on ice skates, dependent on his kids to keep him from falling on his ass."  Arthur shook his head, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth at the memory.  "Anyway, pretty soon he falls down like we all knew he was going to, and you start laughing, but Phillipa...she was about 7 or 8 at the time...Phillipa gets _mad_.  She starts yelling, "Stop laughing, Uncle Eames, you big bully!  It's not his fault, it's just __lubricated friction__!  It's a force of __nature__!"  Oh, god, I thought you were going to fall over you were laughing so hard.  Apparently they were learning about kinetic energy in science class.   She was even madder because we were all laughing, but you finally calmed down enough to tell her that lubricated friction was probably the most powerful force _in_ nature and you yourself were a big fan of it, and then she finally forgave you."  Arthur smiled for real now, his fingers mapping Eames's palm.  "If I had a nickel for every time you said the words "lubricated friction" after that...and I kept telling you that as far as euphemisms go, that was wasn't very subtle, but it didn't stop you."  Arthur finally dropped his hand and shoved them into his pockets.  "Anyway.  I just wanted to share that one with you."  He checked Eames's watch again.  "So, now back to your regularly scheduled program."

He sank back into his chair and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, the hot tears that he finally stopped holding back leaking around them.

* * *

 

Eames sat in the penthouse, his lips wrapped around a cigar and a haze of blue smoke over him.  He felt a little lightheaded, probably because he hadn't eaten anything, but he finished the list he'd been writing up in a Moleskin, his neat handwriting covering the pages.  It was instructions to Souji, so he left it on the desk where he knew he'd find it in the morning.  Souji was a good man, a good father too.  And he'd told him last week that Yumiko was expecting again, so he was going to be a busy man too.  A man like that should have a legacy, something to pass on to his children, a name to leave the world with.  He deserved it.  

Eames took his cigar and a tumbler with him out onto the balcony and looked out over the night skyline.  It was beautiful out here at night.  The city stretched out before him, the lights twinkling, the traffic too far away to hear.  It was a lot of work to get to where he was.  It was blood, and sweat, and he felt like he'd laid every brick.  He could go out right now and say, or get , or do anything he wanted.  How many people in the world got to say that?  There was absolutely nothing above him.

He leaned out over the rail and played a game with himself, seeing how far he could relax his hand before the glass tumbler slipped from his grasp and shattered on the cement far below.  It turned out, not very far.  From this high up it looked like a flower, or maybe a snowball that had landed, spreading glittering tendrils out in a perfect circle.  The cigar was next, but far less satisfying when it landed and bounced a short distance away.  Eames frowned.  He leaned out a little farther, trying to see if he could spot the cigar where it had rolled.

"I hate you," he said aloud, firmly and calmly.  He had no idea who he was talking to, if it were himself or someone else.  "I hate you for not being here.  I hate you for not saving me."

Then he played a game with himself, seeing how far he could lean before he tipped over the railing and shattered on the cement far below.  It turned out, not very far.

* * *

Arthur watched the second hand tick toward the two-hour mark.  He had the PASIV line in one hand, his shirt sleeve already rolled, a rubber tube already wrapped around his bicep.  Ten seconds...he licked his lips and readjusted his grip on the needle.  Five seconds...he swallowed and glanced toward Eames's face one last time...and dropped the fucking needle.  Two ice-blue eyes stared directly back at him.

"Eames?" he said, rising jerkily out of the chair.  "Eames?"

Eames blinked at him, a small frown between his eyebrows.

"Are you ok?  Jesus fucking Christ, Eames, say something."

Eames frowned.  "A...Arthur?"

Arthur sagged with relief.  "Oh, god," he breathed, reaching for him.  He wanted to kiss him, taste him, devour him.  He wanted to hug him and breathe him in, and never let go but--but Eames flinched.  Just before Arthur touched his face there was the tiniest of movements, Eames recoiled a minuscule amount and there was a flash of confusion in his eyes.  Arthur dropped his hands immediately but he felt like he'd been punched in the chest.   _Calm down, calm down_ , he told himself.   _He's just confused, he just needs a second.  Do NOT freak out._

"Arthur?  Where am I?"  Eames was still frowning, his eyes moving slowly around the room.

"You're in the hospital.  We came to get Dom and Saito."  Arthur held his breath as Eames's eyes came back to rest on his.

"And where were you?" he said slowly.

Arthur blanched.  "I...I was here.  I was right here."  He ached to be able to touch Eames, to assure himself that he was real, and alive, and ok.  He gripped his die in his pocket instead.

Eames went back to surveying the room.  "I don't remember how I got here."

At his words, Arthur started.  He moved to the neatly folded pile of clothes and brought them to Eames.  He indicated the pocket and watched as Eames slowly withdrew his poker chip.

"But," he sounded confused as he ran his thumb along the edge, "isn't it supposed to be smooth?"

Arthur tried to look encouraging.  "It's smooth in dreams.  You were just there a long time."

Eames frowned again but flipped the chip smoothly over his knuckles.  "I remember this."

"That's good, Eames.  That's good."  Arthur dragged the chair closer to Eames and sat down next to him, his eyes on the poker chip.  "Tell me something else you remember.  Something that you know is real, something you're sure isn't a dream."

Eames was quiet for a long time.  The poker chip slipped and rolled along the blanket, but he didn't reach to pick it up.  He just stared at it.

"It doesn't matter how old it is, just one that you  _know_ isn't a dream."

Eames thought for a bit and Arthur forced himself to stay silent, counting seconds in his head. 

"I remember when you got cut."

Arthur blinked.  "When I...what?"

Eames looked at him.  "In Cairo.  The mark's brother went after you with a knife, and got you down the back."

Arthur sat back a little.  "Yeah.  I remember that.  He ruined my suit.  That was a new suit, too."

Eames gave him a small smile, but he looked tired as if dredging up the memory had taken a lot of effort.  "I thought he ruined your back."

"He tried.  And I do have a pretty impressive scar, I'm told.  But I had some decent help, though, so he didn't ruin too much of me."

Eames leaned his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes, his small smile still in place.  "I stitched you up."  Arthur could breathe a little easier.

"Ok, so you remember what happened.  Do you remember anything else?  Do you remember how you felt?"

Eames's eyes stayed closed, but his smile turned into a smirk. "Turned on."

Arthur laughed.  Eames started to laugh too, and at the sound, Arthur couldn't stop himself from taking his hand and threading their fingers together.  Eames squeezed his hand.

Arthur tried to swallow down the lump tight in his throat.  "What, what about inception?  Do you remember that?"

Eames opened his eyes. The crease between his eyebrows was back.  "Yes?  Maybe?  I remember...you were being a condescending prick during the planning."

Arthur breathed out a laugh.  "Do you remember anything else?  How did you feel?"

Eames laughed.  "Turned on."

Arthur couldn't help the grin that threatened to split his face in two.  "I think you're going to be ok."

Eames turned his head to look at him, suddenly serious.  "I don't know, Arthur.  I'm don't know if I'm the same person.  I was someone else for _years_ , someone no one liked very much, someone _I_ didn't like very much."  His voice was low and he looked away.  "Someone you wouldn't like very much."

"Well, that's how you know it was a dream."  

Eames looked back at him wearily, questioning.

"I will always like you," Arthur said, simply.  "Very much."

 


	13. In Every Heart, There is a Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated rating from T to M due to this chapter. Sorry if I mislead anyone, it wasn't my intent! The boys had their own ideas about how things should go, as you can imagine.

Arthur shifted gears automatically, his foot easing the clutch and his mind focusing only on the whine of the engine and the flow of traffic.  And a little bit on the quiet man in the passenger seat next to him.  He knew Eames was processing, he'd had to do the same thing.  But he just looked so _alone_  and it was killing Arthur to watch him look out the window and try to appear as if he wasn't trying to rebuild his entire life.  When they reached a stoplight, Arthur glanced over at him and he was staring out the passenger window.  Or possibly staring _at_  the passenger window.  It was hard to say.  He watched Eames's fingers twitch slightly on his thigh, a leftover from when he quit smoking, and Arthur did something he'd wanted to do for a long time when he saw that happen.  He took his hand off the gear shift and wrapped it around Eames's.  He kept his eyes straight ahead, to give Eames privacy if he needed it, but he didn't let go.  His heart thrilled when he felt Eames give his fingers a small squeeze back, and when he needed to shift gears, he took Eames's hand with him, resting it on the gear shift underneath his hand, and they cycled through the gears together.

When they pulled up to the small house and Arthur killed the engine, he drew Eames's hand up to his mouth and pressed a kiss into the palm.  Eames's fingers curled around Arthur's cheek, and he slid his hand to grasp the back of Arthur's neck and pull him forward.  They sat breathing each other's air for a few seconds, Arthur was too close to focus on anything but Eames's lips, and he subconsciously wet his own with his tongue.

"Bloody hell," Eames whispered, then closed the last few centimeters and kissed him.  Arthur kissed him back, pulling Eames's bottom lip into his mouth and tracing it with his tongue.  When Arthur made a move to get closer, to put his hands over every square inch of Eames and take him apart, he was jabbed in the gut by the gear shift.  He grunted and pulled back enough to grin at Eames. 

"You know, I have a whole house just feet from where we're sitting."

"Yeah?" Eames said, one corner of his mouth raised in a smirk, "You don't want to snog in the driveway like teenagers?"

"Yes," Arthur nodded seriously. "I absolutely do."

Eames laughed.  "Come on," he said, giving Arthur one more peck on the mouth.  "Inside, then."

Arthur couldn't stop the stupid smile that spread over his face and as he fitted the key in the lock he looked back over his shoulder to see Eames staring at his ass.  Eames met his gaze with a look that pooled heat in his belly and he couldn't open the door fast enough.  He looked back once more as he swung the door open, but instead of the playful desire he expected to see on Eames's face, he was met with a look of alarmed concern.  Eames's eyes swept the front of the house and he took a step back.  Arthur felt adrenaline dump ice water in his veins and he spun around, his hand immediately going for the handgun in his shoulder holster.  He saw what had Eames's back up--the light was on in the living room.  He should have realized right away that the drapes had been drawn, _stupid, stupid!_   He raised the gun and flipped the safety off before easing into the house, Eames at his back.  

"Woah, hey, easy," came the voice from inside.

Arthur froze.  "Paul?" 

"Yeah, it's me," he said, hands raised.  He stood in Arthur's living room in low slung jeans and a soft gray t-shirt which hugged biceps Arthur knew all too well.  "Don't shoot me, ok?"

Arthur realized he was still pointing the gun at him and flipped the safety back on.  Then he lowered it but didn't put it back in the holster yet.  He could feel Eames behind him doing the same.  He took a few more steps inside, Eames closing the door behind them.  "What are you doing here?  How did you even know this is where I was?"

Paul frowned and lowered his hands.  "I went looking for you.  You didn't come back to the apartment, and I started to worry you were dead somewhere."

Arthur was immediately defensive.  "I told you I was leaving, I said I didn't know exactly when I'd be back, and you were the one who decided--"

"Yeah, well I didn't know you were _never_ coming back."

Arthur realized he was getting far more emotional than the situation called for, probably because Eames was standing silently behind him, not close enough for comfort.  He took a breath and said, calmly, "How did you find me?" 

Paul shrugged.  "I hired a PI and he gave me this address."

"A  _PI?!_ " Arthur gaped.  "You hired a PI, and they actually found me?  Who?"

"That's not really the fucking point Arthur, is it. The point is you have a secret house in America." 

"Well I'm fucking American, I didn't know it was a big deal."  Arthur's sarcasm probably wasn't helping to calm the situation down.

"No, of course it's not a big deal," Paul said viciously.  "How could it be a big deal when I didn't know anything about it!  I'm starting to think there's a lot you didn't tell me."

Arthur could feel the anger stiffening his muscles when suddenly Eames stepped up from behind him.  "Ok, I think that's enough."

Both Arthur and Paul turned to look at him.  He'd put his gun away, but Paul was scowling now.  "You think it's enough, do you?" he sneered.

"Yes," Eames said simply.  "It's none of your business, so you can piss off."

"Oh, really?  How do you figure it's none of my business?"  Paul was getting louder, but Eames stayed the same calm volume.

"Because he didn't tell you.  When it becomes your business, he'll tell you and then you'll know."  Then his voice lowered to something just this side of dangerous.  "Until then, you get what he gives you and you be bloody grateful to get it."

Paul blinked.  "Sorry, but who the fuck are you?  I don't believe Arthur ever mentioned you," he said with a touch of threat.

"Someone who knows about the secret house in America."

Paul bristled and his hands clenched into fists.  He looked decidedly like he'd like to take a swing at Eames, and Eames looked decidedly like he'd like him to try it.  Paul seethed for a moment, then decided he'd had enough.  He stalked toward the door, but on his way past Eames, he stopped and slowly turned to face him.  His eyes blazed, a muscle in his jaw flexed.  Eames met his gaze intensely. 

"Don't do it, mate." 

Fury radiated from Paul, but then he pushed past Eames and out the front door, grabbing his bag on the way out.  The door slammed so hard the house rattled.  Arthur glanced apprehensively at Eames.  There was still tension in the air, and Eames was radiating real anger, breathing hard and staring straight ahead.  Arthur holstered his gun and took a hesitant step toward him, then another.  Eames was a solid wall of muscle and Arthur could see the pulse pounding in his neck.  Arthur eyed the lightly stubbled spot that he had kissed a thousand times and knew would make Eames melt.  At least, his Eames would.  The thought made Arthur pause and Eames turned to meet his eyes.  How could he do this?  It was a different man in front of him than the one he knew.  Wasn't it?  Eames's face was hard, with a bitter twist to his beautiful lips, but his eyes...his eyes were the same as he'd always known.  There was a river of uncertainty running through them and Arthur felt himself soften.  He remembered the fevered groping that had happened in this very house the night before they went under, and that same spot drawing his lips then too.  He let himself drift closer, but still not close enough to touch.  He could feel Eames's body heat, their clothes brushing together, but the only point of contact between them was Arthur's lips softly tasting the pulse point on Eames's neck.  He stayed there, breathing in the familiar/brand new scent of the man he loved, letting them forget and remember together.  He felt Eames relax in degrees, his breathing slowing, his hands coming up to rest on Arthur's waist.  Arthur breathed his relief out in a rush and he could feel Eames's skin break into goosebumps.  He ran his hands gently up Eames's chest, palming over his nipples and resting on his broad shoulders.  His lips on Eames's neck turned possessive, using teeth and tongue to make Eames groan before working on sucking a bruise into his skin.   

Eames threaded his fingers in Arthur's hair and pulled his head away.  His eyes swept Arthur's face before he devoured his mouth, licking into him hungrily.  Arthur tried to keep up while Eames walked him backward to the bedroom.   When Eames kicked the door shut, Arthur pushed him roughly up against it, caging Eames between his arms, their equal height turning the drag of his body up against Eames sweet torture.  Eames worked Arthur's tie, alternating between untying the knot and using it to pull him forward.  Arthur slid his thigh in between Eames', gasping as he rocked them together.  

"God," Arthur breathed as he unbuttoned Eames's shirt, carefully sliding each one open and reverently peeling back the fabric to reveal his tattooed torso.  "You are so perfect," he whispered into his skin, running his tongue over swirls of ink and sliding the shirt down his arms.  

Eames responded by flipping them smoothly and pressing Arthur against the wall, capturing his mouth as he divested him of tie, jacket, holster, and vest before he let out a growl and ripped Arthur's shirt apart, buttons pinging around the room.  He ran his broad palms over Arthur's pale skin, thumbing his nipples into hard nubs and sucking his bottom lip into his mouth roughly.  He pulled back, sucking on his lip until it released with a soft sound and he looked into Arthur's face.  Arthur wasn't sure what he looked like, but Eames was fucking _gorgeous_.  His pupils were blown, his breathing hard, and he was looking at Arthur like wanted to take him apart.  Eames gripped Arthur's ass, pulling him flush up against his erection and Arthur felt a moan tear out of him.  

Arthur fumbled for Eames's belt, but Eames pushed his hands away and undid Arthur's instead.  Eames slid his hands under Arthur's loosened waistband and into the back of his boxer briefs while mouthing at his neck, collarbone, and chest.  Eames slid his way down Arthur's body, pressing hot, frantic kisses into his pale skin and pulling his pants and underwear with him as he sank to his knees.  Arthur was so hard he hurt, and he bit his lips as he sprang free, biting back the moan the rush of air against him caused.  It was startled out of him a second later when Eames swallowed him down expertly all the way to the root. 

"Holy fuck... _Eames,"_ Arthur swore, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes against the perfect sight in front of him and rocking into the feel. 

"Nngh, that feels... _ah_...so good," he groaned, his hips coming forward involuntarily. Eames slammed them back and held them still while he worked, bobbing his head in time to Arthur's panted breaths.  He didn't let up, his tongue was perfect and the suction was perfect and holy shit he was good at this.  In fact, he was almost too good at this.

"Hey," Arthur breathed, running his fingers through Eames's hair, "slow down."  Eames didn't hear him, and since Arthur was having trouble formulating thoughts himself, he didn't really blame him.  "Eames... _ah, god_...Eames!" he panted, "slow down." 

Eames met his eyes, but he didn't slow down.  It was fast and brutal, Arthur hitting the back of his throat on almost every stroke.  "Jesus...Eames, you gotta slow down."  Eames glared at him and sucked harder.  Arthur placed a hand on his shoulder, alarmed.  "Eames...stop." 

He didn't stop.  "Eames, _stop!_ " Arthur shoved at him and Eames froze, releasing him.  His face was a chaos of fear and anger and hurt and Arthur's heart broke a little.  "Hey, it's alright," Arthur promised.  He sunk down in front of Eames and he gathered him close, praying he wouldn't push him away.  Eames froze for a second, then buried his face in Arthur's neck and clung to him, his breathing ragged.  "It's alright," Arthur murmured, "it's gonna be alright."  

They knelt together on Arthur's bedroom floor, their harsh breaths the only sound in the room, Arthur holding him tightly and dusting small kisses onto his temple.  Arthur stroked his hair, his shoulders, his back, letting him know that he was there and that he wasn't going anywhere.  When Eames finally pulled back, the scared and sorrowful look he gave Arthur almost destroyed him.  He had never wanted anything more than he wanted the broken, beautiful man in front of him.  He tipped a small smile at Eames and kissed him softly.  Arthur cradled his face, rubbing his thumb over Eames's cheek and looking calmly into his stormy eyes.  He kissed him once more, sweetly, before taking his hand and pulling him to his feet.

Arthur led him over to the bed, making him sit while he slowly and carefully removed the rest of their clothing, dotting kisses wherever he exposed Eames's warm skin.  He whispered promises and reassurances in between kisses, taking his time, and stripping away more than clothes.  He threw out all the old knowledge, relearning Eames's body as if this were their first time.  Because it was their first time.  Because this was real, and because he desperately wanted to know _this_  Eames.  He wanted to know which spots made his breath hitch when he licked them, and which sounds he could wring from Eames when he ran his fingers over him.  He cataloged them all, memorizing, cherishing.   It was painfully perfect and exactly what he'd wanted every time he looked at Eames. 

"Arthur," Eames begged, and Arthur knelt above him, looking down at the sweaty, writhing mess he'd turned Eames into.  Eames reached for him and Arthur felt his skin sizzle wherever Eames touched him.  Every finger stroke, every sigh across his skin, every brush of Eames's lips made him spin out of control.  He captured Eames's wrist and brought it to his mouth, rubbing his lips over the thin skin there, then nosing his palm open and laving a wide stripe of his tongue across it.  He did the same to his own hand, then he wrapped their hands around both of them, sliding their lengths together and making them both groan.  

"I don't want you anywhere but right here," Arthur insisted, his voice low in Eames' ear.  "Do you hear me?  I want your head so full of me, right here, right now, that you can't think of anything else."

Eames whispered, "Specificity," against Arthur's lips, before capturing his mouth and kissing him within an inch of his life.  He arched into Arthur, and Arthur kept it slow, his strong strokes drawn out and making Eames buck into his grasp.  They ground together, sometimes panting into each other mouths and sometimes swallowing the small cries that eked out, tongues sliding together.  Their breaths sped up, their hands sped up and Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on Eames.  He knew Eames was close, his thrusts becoming frantic.

"Arthur...", Eames said, his voice breaking on the word. 

"Oh, fuck, Eames," Arthur rasped. God, his fucking _voice_.

"Darling--" Eames rumbled in his ear, and Arthur was gone.  Sound whited out, and the world around him fell away as he shattered into a million pieces.  He vaguely heard Eames cry his own release a few seconds later, but he could only barely manage to collapse mostly next to him instead of directly on top of him.  He lay gasping with his face buried in the pillow and his arm trapped uncomfortably underneath him.  He couldn't have cared less.

"Gnnnnngh..." Arthur groaned, the sound muffled by the pillow.  "Was it good for you?" he slurred. 

He felt more than heard Eames chuckle.

"Very."

Arthur rolled so he could see his face.  Eames looked back at him, his eyes warm and a small smile playing on his lips.  Arthur still couldn't feel his legs.  "Holy shit, Mr. Eames," he said, awed and reverent.

At the phrase, Eames sucked in a ragged breath and for a split second, he looked overwhelmed. Arthur felt a flash of concern, but he gave Arthur a wobbly smile. "Holy shit, yourself," he said back, raising a hand to cup Arthur's jaw and trace his thumb over Arthur's lower lip.  "Don't go anywhere," he whispered and moved to stand. 

"Zero chance of that happening, promise," Arthur said sleepily.  He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew, Eames was wiping him down with a wet cloth, the act intensely intimate despite what they'd just done.  He pressed a slow kiss onto the flat plane of Arthur's belly. 

He disappeared for a moment, but when Eames came back and slid in next to him, Arthur didn't give him a choice.  He tucked himself behind the larger man, draping himself over him and reveling in the way they fit together.  Eames's head was pillowed on Arthur's bicep and Arthur nosed the back of his neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex and _Eames_.  He would never, ever get enough of that smell.  He would also never get enough of touching Eames, tracing his tattoos, smoothing over the hair on his chest, touching the velvety skin at his hip, right above his thigh, feeling the muscles in his stomach bunch when he skimmed his fingers over them.

"That tickles," Eames mock scolded, capturing Arthur's wandering hand and bringing it to his lips.  He kissed the pads of each finger before sighing softly and settling back against Arthur.  Arthur listened to him breathe for a while, scared to break the spell between them but desperate to make sure he was ok.  

"Why weren't you there?" Eames finally whispered into the dark.  Arthur started at the sound of his voice, concern flooding through him. What on this earth could have possibly happened to make him sound so lost?

"You mean, in limbo?" Arthur blinked in confusion.   "I wasn't?  Like, not even a projection of me?"

Eames shook his head slightly.  "I couldn't remember anything.  I met Saito, but I didn't know who he was.  Hell, I didn't know who I was," he said wearily.  "It was _years_.  It just went on and on..." His voice trailed off.

"Will you tell me about it?" Arthur asked quietly.  

Eames shook his head more forcefully.  "I don't want to remember it."  He craned his neck around to look Arthur in the eye.  "I want to make new memories."

_"Yes, god yes,"_ Arthur thought and brushed a kiss over his lips.  But he felt guilt gnaw at his gut and knew that if he didn't tell Eames now, it was the same as lying about what had happened to him.

"You were there in mine," he told him, dropping kisses onto Eames's shoulder instead of looking at him.

"Was I?  Did you know me?"

'Uh, yeah, we were," Arthur swallowed, "We were together.  Like, married, together," he risked a glance at Eames, who looked fascinated in the dim light.  "We lived next to Dom and we helped with the kids, and it was," Arthur shrugged a shoulder, "Well, it was nice."  He flashed a quick smile at him.  "I have all these great stories about stuff that happened to us."  It felt like a confession.  

"Will you tell me some of them?" Eames said softly.

Arthur shook his head immediately.  "I don't want to remember it," he said.  "I want to make new memories." 

He'd never spoken anything truer in his life.  And when Eames kissed him, it felt like coming home.        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, though? A private investigator found _Arthur?!_


	14. You Answered Me With No Pretense

He could feel Arthur stir when he slid out of bed to pull on his pants. Eames leaned back to kiss his sleepy mouth and whisper, "Be right back," before padding barefoot to the kitchen. He drank a glass of water in the dark, then refilled it, his fingers twitching, thinking. He brought the glass back with him and paused for a moment in the doorway to take in the sight of a thoroughly rumpled Arthur tangled in bedsheets and looking delightfully debauched. Christ, he had missed this man. He had ached for him with every fiber of his soul, and he couldn't even put a name or face to what it was he was longing for. And yet, he knew. Somehow, it had been Arthur all along.

He rubbed Arthur's arm. "Hey, darling, wake up for a moment, yeah?" When Arthur blinked a bleary eye at him, he offered the water and Arthur sat up, reluctantly, to drink. Eames watched his throat work, the way he always did when Arthur drank anything and realized he didn't have to do that anymore. He could kiss Arthur right now if he wanted to. And he did.

"Mmph!" Arthur grunted as Eames pressed himself into the space between Arthur's shoulder and jaw, licking little kisses along the column of his throat. 

"Ok, did you want me to drink the water or not drink the water because I'm getting some mixed signals here," Arthur grumbled, but Eames could hear his smile. He pressed himself into the sleepy warmth of Arthur's normally starched and untouchable chest dropping kisses everywhere he could reach just because he could. 

"Darling?" he said in between lazy kisses along Arthur's clavicle. 

"Mmm?" Arthur leaned into the kisses, glass forgotten in his hand. 

"I hate to break up the afterglow, but I do have a question."

"Mmmmhm."

"How did Paul get inside your house? And how did he even know where your house was? Because you and I know that PI thing was a line of crap."

He felt Arthur stiffen beside him, jerking upright and sloshing him with water. 

"Ok, touché," Eames muttered, swiping at the droplets. 

"Oh, fuck, I don't...you don't think someone sent him, do you?"

Eames stilled, looking Arthur in the eye. "Do you?" he asked seriously. 

Eames could see Arthur thinking furiously, that adorable frown between his eyebrows. He got up, slapped the glass on the bedside table and pulled on his trousers. He grabbed Rhonda and went to check the rest of the house. Eames sat up against the headboard waiting for him to return and feeling strangely calm about the whole thing. When Arthur came back a few minutes later looking unsettled, he was still trying to memorize the picture of a half-naked Arthur with sex hair, holding a gun, and strafing out of the bedroom. 

"The front door is unlocked but nothing is missing," he reported, moments later. "I guess I'd better change the locks anyway. I don't even have any other security on the place because I'm never here." He placed his gun on the table next to the glass. "Eames, how did he find me? No one finds me, I find them."

"Did you find him?"

Arthur frowned. "What do you mean?"

"When you first met. Did you approach him or did he approach you?"

"He...fuck, you think he was casing me?! What the hell for?! It's not like I..." Understanding dawned across his face, then horror. "Oh, God. I..."

Arthur spun and Eames could hear the front door open and close. He laced his fingers over his belly and waited. Arthur burst back in looking stricken.

"He took them. The PASIVs, they were in the car and he broke the window and FUCK! I can't believe I didn't...first the curtains and I still didn't even...god DAMN it!" He plowed his hands through his hair and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked a little green. 

Eames got up and went to the pile of clothing on the floor and came back with his trousers. He reached into the pocket and dropped a wallet in Arthur's lap before pulling them on. 

"See what you can do with that."

Arthur flipped through the wallet, pulling out cards. "Where did you get this?"

Eames shrugged. "When you wear loose jeans and push past me whilst being a prick, you're basically begging for it. "

Arthur quirked an eyebrow at him. "You think those jeans were loose?"

Eames gave him a look. "Daring, have you seen your trousers?"

Arthur examined the wallet again. "Is it wrong that I find this extremely hot?"

"Probably. "

"He took my laptop too, but I'd wiped everything before we went to the hospital, so he won't get anything from there," Arthur said, ignoring him. "Jesus fuck, I can't believe I did this. And all because I wanted to get laid." He shook his head. "If anyone knew..."

"They wouldn't believe it anyway," Eames cut in smoothly. "We will get them back, Arthur." 

"Eames...I slept with him."

"I'd assumed," Eames said wryly. 

"How could I have...and the whole time he was here for the fucking PASIV. He just didn't know where it was." 

"Yes, we've hopefully established that he's a giant wanker and you'd much rather be with me."

Arthur's eyes snapped to his. "Of course I would. I..." he blushed. Arthur blushed. "I did before." 

"You did what before?" Eames asked, distracted by the adorable flush that was spreading down Arthur's neck.

Arthur fidgeted. He fidgeted! "Want to be with you." 

Eames took a moment to let that process. Lord, this man was going to kill him. "You don't say! And when did all this wanting start?"

Arthur groaned. "Do we have to do this right now?"

"Yes, we absolutely do. Specificity, darling."

Arthur leaned his head back and sighed at the ceiling. "Fuck. Fine, since Paris." 

Eames felt something wither in his chest, just a bit. "Oh. Right. Well, I suppose you'd technically broken up, though, so I don't think you have anything to--"

Arthur looked at him, confused. "Not that Paris. The first time we were in Paris."

"The first time we...? Darling, that was our second job together."

Now Arthur really did blush, all the way to his hairline. He looked at the wallet in his lap, turning it over and over. "Yeah...well."

Eames felt something click inside himself, like a dislocated shoulder popping back into place, a flood of relief where previously there had only been pressure. "Well, I suppose I wouldn't be out of line then when I say, 'I win'." He grinned at Arthur's puzzled look. "I've wanted you from the first job."

"The first...you have?!"

"Darling, again. Have you seen your trousers?" he teased. 

Arthur dropped his head on Eames's chest, groaning. "Ugh, think of all the time we wasted. A thousand nights in two separate hotel rooms."

"I know, pet. Just think of all the money we could have saved." 

Arthur punched him in the arm. 

"Ow," he laughed. "Darling, if you keep that up, I--" he broke off and they both froze at the sound of a knock on the front door. 

Eames grabbed the gun from the table and leveled it over Arthur's shoulder. "Who is it?" he shouted. 

The air exploded with gunfire, the staccato of automatic rounds hitting the house front. The rounds were tearing through the windows and drywall and Eames wrapped both arms around Arthur and rolled them twice, landing on his back on the far side of the bed. 

"Window! Neighbors! 30 yards southwest!" Arthur yelled in his ear. "On 3!" Eames nodded. "1, 2, 3!"

Together they surged up and the hit the window at the same time, shattering the glass outward and they dropped into a roll simultaneously. Eames saw more than felt blood oozing from a cut somewhere on his shoulder but they were up and running before he could do more than switch the gun to his other hand. The gunfire rattled on and they crouched as low as they could, heading straight for the house Arthur had indicated. 

They skidded behind an old sky blue Impala parked in the driveway, panting, and Arthur pulled open the driver's side door, leaning under the steering wheel. Eames covered him. 

"Bloody hell! Is that a fucking Gatling gun?! Who the fuck is your ex-boyfriend, darling?"

Arthur ignored him, pulling wires from the steering column and working on stripping them. 

"Holy shit, can you actually hotwire a car?"

Arthur ignored him. 

"Well, that's very handy."

"Oh, yes, I am a font of resourcefulness. I'm out here with nothing, no shirt, no shoes, and 15 bullets between the two of us--THERE! Get in." Arthur ducked into the driver's side and Eames scrambled into the back. 

"Go, go, go," he called up and Arthur didn't even wait for the final 'go' before he was peeling out of the driveway and speeding away from the gunfire that still hadn't paused. 

"Christ," Eames said, covering them out the back window. "Didn't you check him out?"

"He wasn't a mark, I was just fucking him!"

"Arthur! Did you or didn't you?"

"Of course I did, he checked out fine!" He turned corners seemingly at random and far too fast. "I might not have dug that hard, though," he said, more quietly. 

"And all that that implies," Eames muttered under his breath. To Arthur, he said, "We need to get--"

"Clothing, security, supplies, transportation. On it," he said tersely. He jerked the wheel harshly and before Eames knew what was happening, Arthur had pulled into the parking lot of a 24-hour drugstore, the fluorescent light garish against the pavement. Arthur turned to look at Eames and something flashed over his face before it was quickly replaced with the smooth and calm professionalism that Eames had come to know so very well. "You're bleeding."

Eames looked at his shoulder and saw the trail of blood all the way down to his fingers and smeared onto the white leather behind him. "Bollocks," he whispered to himself. He'd forgotten.

"Stay here. The car has to stay running. You ok to fire if you need to?"

"Yes, yes, just go."

Arthur nodded curtly and grabbed Paul's wallet off the seat before heading inside. Luckily, it was LA in the middle of the night, so no shirt and no shoes didn't raise many eyebrows. Eames scanned the darkness mercilessly and tried not to think about anything except covering Arthur as he walked with a studied nonchalance to and from the store.

Back in the car, he threw a bag to Eames and slid on a plain blue t-shirt and a pair of sandals. Eames opened the supplies and started cleaning and bandaging his shoulder before swiping ineffectively at the blood on the car seat. Arthur pulled away, the old car coughing and wheezing the whole time. 

"Darling?"

"Mm."

"This was the only shirt they had, was it?" he asked, holding up the shirt apparently made out of an American flag. 

Arthur met his eyes in the rearview mirror. "Yep."

Eames glared. "I don't believe you." 

"I don't know what you're complaining about," Arthur said as Eames smoothed the shirt over his chest and discovered it was, at least, one size too small. "I think God is blessing America more already." 

"Ha bloody ha."


	15. So I Will Share This Room With You

Arthur went, of all places, to the public library.  Eames sat reading a Harlequin romance novel and snickering (but more importantly, discreetly watching Arthur's back) while Arthur did whatever computer magic he was capable of.   After about a half hour, he sat back with a sigh and said, "Well, that's all the damage control I can do for now.  I don't dare move any money around, and I think we have to assume that everything about me is compromised, so unless you've got an airplane I don't know about, I think we're grounded."

"How much cash do we have left?" 

Arthur checked Paul's wallet.  "About $200."

Eames thought for a moment, then shrugged.  "Let's call Saito.  We'll find a place to crash tonight, then go get him.  He owes us a favor and we're in need of cashing one in."

Arthur didn't like it, but he didn't have any better ideas and figured that they were relatively safe since they didn't exactly have a paper trail right now.  So they headed on foot to the nearest motel, about a mile or so east.  They walked in companionable silence, sandals flapping quietly, the night breeze sweet and cool against their skin. 

"So.  Tell me one of the stories from when you were in limbo."

Arthur stiffened, checking Eames's face before frowning and shaking his head.  "I don't want to.  It's not important."

"Oh come on.  Not all of us got fluffy, happy dreams with birds and ribbons and shite.  So, spill it.  Share with the class."  Eames's words were lighthearted, but his tone had bite.

Arthur looked at him for a few seconds before saying carefully, "It wasn't real.  None of it.  Just like yours wasn't real.  So we both just have to try to forget them and move on."

"I'm gonna guess that it _felt_ pretty fucking real since I know mine did."

Arthur stopped in his tracks, frowning.  "What is this?  What are you doing right now?"

"Nothing.  Absolutely fucking nothing."  Eames pushed past Arthur and kept walking.

At the motel, Eames stood at the bathroom sink, Arthur's hastily purchased razor in his hand, staring blankly at the mirror.  Arthur watched him silently from the other room, monitoring him closely while he stowed their meager possessions in the drawers.  He watched Eames run a hand raggedly through the stubble on his jaw a few times, then he wet his hand in the tap and ran it over his jaw again.  He tapped the razor on the edge of the sink, hesitatingly, then finally placed it back precisely on the counter and dried his face.  He turned to see Arthur staring at him.  Eames raised his eyebrows in a "can I help you?" look, and Arthur decided he didn't want to fight.  He definitely didn't want to fight with Eames in his current state.  

"Keeping the scruff?" he asked instead, tossing him a small smile.

Eames shrugged one shoulder.  "Maybe, for now.  I forgot what I looked like without a beard, to be honest.  's a bit weird," he admitted, looking almost shy.

Arthur's lips tightened in what could have been a smile, and he nodded.  "I didn't get us any clothes but the shirts and shoes, nothing to sleep in," nervous words spilled out of Arthur's mouth, unbidden, "and the single was cheaper than the double room, but if you want, I can just take first watch and you can have the bed because I'm not really--"

Arthur's voice trailed off as Eames came toward him with a small frown on his face.  Slowly, Eames bent down and kissed his lips, a soft, light caress that shut him up pretty effectively.  

"Hey.  I'm sorry, yeah?  Don't kick me out of bed until I, at least, eat some biscuits and get crumbs all over the sheets, okay?"

Arthur breathed in relief but tried to cover it with a huff.  "You're not actually going to do that, right?"

Eames raised an eyebrow.  "Depends.  Did you buy any?" 

Arthur hesitated, then looked away.  "I'm going to jump in the shower, quick."

Eames brightened.  "You did!  Arthur, you are a genius."

"Yeah, yeah, I know.  My mother still has the plaque.  Just don't eat all of them, alright?"

"Absolutely, darling."

Arthur fixed him with his fiercest scowl, then disappeared into the bathroom.

* * *

 

Eames could see Arthur start when he pulled back the shower curtain and stepped into the tub behind him.

"Hi," Arthur said, and he sounded, adorably, a bit nervous.

Eames didn't reply, just pressed behind Arthur, his dry, warm chest solid against Arthur's slick, wet back.  He couldn't get enough of the way it felt when he ran his lips over Arthur's neck, starting right behind his ear and following the smooth line down the side of his throat and over his shoulder.  He could hear Arthur's breath hitch as he circled his arms around him, stroking his perfect chest while water sluiced down his body.  He felt Arthur press back against him slightly and couldn't stop the rumble that rolled out of his chest.  He could feel himself hardening against Arthur's arse.

"I have thought about you in the shower a million times," he confessed into Arthur's ear.

"I know."

Eames pulled back slightly.

Arthur gave him a mischievous smile, a light blush staining his cheeks.  "I heard you at the hotel in Alaska."

Eames's eyebrows shot up and he felt his own answering grin.  "You should have jumped in with me.  Showers are always better with two."

"I have to tell you, I've never actually found that to be true."

"Mmmm," Eames said, distracted by a rivulet of soap suds working their way over Arthur's hip. He followed it with his thumb. "That's because you've never done it with me." 

"Wow, you're right, condescension is really not... _ahh_!" Arthur sucked in a breath as Eames's fingers circled his length. He touched him lightly, teasingly, the water surrounding them both and heightening their senses.  Eames took his time, working him slowly with one hand and exploring with the other, caressing each plane of muscle on his back, stomach, side.  He grazed Arthur's nipple and at his answering grunt, spent time rolling and tugging it into a perfect hard bud.  He ran his tongue and teeth over the scar he'd helped stitch up.  Arthur's panting filled the small space and Eames drank it in, their nearness and the frank amount of Arthur he was allowed to hold in his arms.  

Eames meant to say something witty, something sexy and charming, but what came out was a breathless, "Christ, darling, you are perfect."  He should have done something to lighten the moment, but the statement was so true, he could only wish there was a stronger word than 'perfect'.

He nipped and sucked at Arthur's ear, his strokes becoming firmer and wringing what can only be described as a whine out of the point man.  His own erection trapped between them was hard and aching, slipping between Arthur's cheeks with every shift of their bodies.  Eames's fingers grasped Arthur's hip, pulling him back, hard, and groaning at the too much/not enough friction that was going to break him.  His head swam and he closed his eyes against the tidal wave of want, and longing, and aching loneliness and crippling despair.  No, wait, no.  He gripped Arthur tighter and dropped his forehead, his hand slowing, then stopping as he drew in ragged breaths.  He suddenly needed Arthur to ground him, bring him back from the ledge of his appalling well of emotions, churning and waiting to overflow their carefully constructed container.  

"Hey," Arthur whispered turning slightly.  When he caught sight of Eames's face, he turned sharply.  "Hey, hey, hey.  Where'd you go?" he said gently, cradling his face in his palms.  His palms rasped against his stubble.  "It's alright.  Hey," he forced Eames to look him in the eye.  "It'll be okay, yeah?  I promise." 

Eames swallowed hard, then nodded.  Eventually, if Arthur said it enough times, he'd believe him.  He just had to give him enough time.  "Promises, promises, pet," he replied, his voice sounding slightly strangled.  When Arthur kissed him, he held on tight and Arthur pressed him into the cold tiles and slid his tongue into his mouth.  Their slick bodies glided together in all the right ways and Eames let himself be overwhelmed with Arthur.  They rutted against each other, taking pleasure and giving it until Eames stilled.  "Darling, I want to be inside you.  Right now."

He felt Arthur's erection twitch with interest at his words.  "That could be arranged, Mr. Eames," he said with heat in his voice.  "Bedroom?"

"Absolutely not, I promised to introduce you to the glory of a shared shower."

The corner of Arthur's mouth quirked up.  "Promises, promises."  He pressed a quick kiss against Eames's lips.  "Okay, stay right there."  He ducked out of the shower and the blast of cold air hitting Eames was almost refreshing.  It cleared his head and he took a deep breath, steadying himself. Arthur deserved the best of him, and he was determined to be that for him.  He ducked his head under the spray, letting it spill over him, drown out his thoughts and wash him clean. 

When Arthur returned, setting the condom packet and lube on one of the shelves, he wasted no time.  He maneuvered Arthur against the long wall of the shower, his hands and mouth everywhere at once.  He tasted everything he could reach, kissing Arthur in all the places he'd kept himself from eyeing from across the room over the years: his neck, the vee of his throat, the insides of his elbows.  He touched every place he'd fantasized about too, the planes of his chest, the soft skin on the inside of his thighs, swell of his arse.  

When he'd successfully left Arthur breathless and gasping a string of curses into his mouth, he rolled the condom down over himself and urged Arthur to settle one foot on the edge of the bathtub.  He rubbed the pad of his finger gently against Arthur's entrance, teasing and opening him slowly.  He pressed one slickened finger into Arthur in slow steady strokes, learning his body, listening to his cues and committing to memory the tiny details that made up the man he'd been mad for for so many years.  He stroked Arthur at the same time, opposite the rhythm of the finger inside him, savoring the way his name sounded when Arthur said it just like that.  Then, ever so slightly, he crooked his finger until he brushed the bundle of nerves inside him and turned Arthur into a jibbering mess. 

"God, Eames, faster.  You're fucking killing me," Arthur swore at him, his head leaning back against the tiles.  Obediently, Eames worked in a second finger, then a third, brushing his prostate with every other stroke, just enough to keep Arthur right on the edge.  Arthur's fingers dug into his shoulders, but he nudged them into wrapping around him instead.  Arthur made a high, keening noise as Eames withdrew his fingers, but Eames pulled at Arthur's leg, urging it too off the floor to push against the edge of the bathtub.  Eames gripped Arthur's hips and lowered him onto his achingly hard erection, pressing into him slowly and letting out a low, long groan the entire time.  When he finally rested fully seated inside him, he had to stop and concentrate on not coming immediately.  When he had some control again, he pulled back to look into Arthur's eyes.  

"You okay, darling?" searching his face, panting.

"God, fuck, yes, you asshole, just fucking...move... _please_..."  Arthur's voice shook.  "Please, Eames."

Eames complied, sliding out of him almost completely before slamming home, hard, because they both needed it.  After that, all bets were off, Eames thrusting powerfully up into him and Arthur using his leverage to roll his hips in a fantastic way that made Eames's vision go blurry.  Arthur felt fucking amazing, and Eames would never, if he lived two more lifetimes, ever get enough of him.  He wasn't even done fucking him, and he already wanted him again.  And then again.  And then again, until they couldn't stand up, couldn't say anything but each other's names, hear anything but each other's heartbeats.

"Oh, god...Eames...oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck," Arthur gasped.

At the last minute, Eames managed to get a hand in between them and jerk Arthur firmly, making him come almost instantly with a hoarse shout, spattering Eames's chest.  Arthur's muscles clenching around him destroyed his last shred of control and he pounded into him until he spent himself inside Arthur's body, the surging emotion rolling through him making him greedy.  He clutched Arthur to him as the last waves of pleasure rolled through him, his hips spasming of their own accord and when Arthur unhitched his leg from Eames's hip, Eames pushed closer into him with a wounded sound he wasn't sure came from his throat.

"Eames, it's alright.  Hey, I'm here.  I'm here."  Arthur stroked his hair, his back, whispering nonsense into Eames's ear while the cooling water ran over them, rinsing it all down the drain.  "Shh, I'm here.  Shhhh."

When Eames could breathe again, he pulled back, sliding out of Arthur and kissing him with his eyes closed before Arthur could say anything or look at him with anything at all in his eyes.  

"See?" he said quietly when he'd worked up the courage to look Arthur in the face.  "Better with two."

Arthur gave him a wobbly smile, then kissed him, and Eames felt himself let go.  Just a bit, but it was a start.

* * *

Both Arthur and Eames jerked awake at the sound of a chair scraping across the floor, instantly alert and recoiling against the headboard.

"Ahh, Arthur, you're letting him be the big spoon, that's cute."

"What the fuck, Paul, what are you doing here?"  Arthur's voice gave no indication of the terror he was feeling, buck naked and covered only with a thin sheet while his ex pointed his own gun at the man he loved.

Paul's mouth twisted cruelly.  "You mean you don't know."

"I have a pretty good idea," he said with a tilt of his head toward Rhonda in Paul's hand.

"Hmm?" he looked down, seeming to notice the gun for the first time.  Then he scoffed.  "I'm not going to kill you, I can't imagine why you'd have that idea."  He seemed almost offended.

"Funny, coming from a guy who just got done spraying my house with automatic gunfire."

Paul rolled his eyes.  "Oh please, if I'd wanted to kill you I didn't need to shoot at your _house_.  I could have put a bullet in your head while you two were so busy getting each other off that you couldn't even lock the front door.  Although, I suppose I would have had to hurry if I'd wanted to actually catch you in the act."

"Okay," Eames said, clearly done.  "I wasn't necessarily going to kill you before but I definitely am now."  He moved to get out of bed.

Paul laughed, rich and throaty.  "Oh, Arthur, he's adorable.  I can see why you like him."  He waved Eames back to the bed with the gun.

"Paul.  What the fuck do you want?" Arthur demanded.

The smile dropped from Paul's lips and the warm, teasing demeanor he'd been sporting dropped too.  His eyes were cold and hard.  "My boss would like you dead, but I'm not entirely convinced that's the best course of action."

"Don't commanding officers generally frown on that sort of thinking?" Eames asked, a river of fury coursing through the words.

Paul's eyebrows shot up.  "Very good, Mr. Eames.  I'm impressed."

"Don't call me that.  What do you want us for, you already have the PASIV.  Surely you can download the instruction manual.  I hear you can find anything on the internet these days."  Eames's body was a tightly coiled spring, just waiting for his chance to rip Paul apart. 

Paul seemed a little too eager to see how far he could push Eames before he snapped.  "I represent a branch of the military that focuses on...let's call it "experimental technology".  However, you know and I know that very little can replace field knowledge when it comes to using that tech.  I've been asked to retrieve the tech, and while I'm normally not the 'love them and kill them' type, I'm beginning to see their point about just getting rid of the headache the two of you will inevitably cause.  You see, my convictions are starting to waver.  I'm trying to remind myself that you're actually human beings and that you're more valuable alive than dead.  What do you think?  Care to pick a side and argue it?"

"Paul, you arrogant asshole."  Arthur was livid, the muscles in his wiry body taught.

"Hmm, not the side I assumed you'd pick, but okay..."

"PAUL!"

Arthur could see the muscle in his jaw flex.  He placed the gun, slowly, on the foot of the bed, Arthur and Eames both tracking his every move like hawks.  "I want you both to come with me. I'm not going to force you to, but I don't think I have to explain that you're exposed here.  I can help with that.  Whatever you decide, I need you to know that we're dealing with very dangerous and very well funded people who don't give two shits about you.  I'm trying to change their mind about that, but I'll need some time."

"You're helping us," Arthur said dryly.  "And you think I'm going to, what?  Fling myself into your arms?"

"I'm helping myself," Paul snapped, his voice hard enough to cut glass.  "Also, I prefer not to murder people unless I have a good reason, although well done, Arthur, on the reason-gathering front."

"Alright, let's just calm down for a moment.  Maybe you can just explain to us what you want from us and why we would ever, in a million years, go with you willingly," Eames stated flatly.

Paul leaned back.  "I don't want anything from you.  In fact, I want nothing from you.  I want you to not fuck up what I've got going on, and if I know Arthur, that's exactly what he's got floating around between his too big ears."

Eames's hand, mostly hidden by the crumpled sheets, tightened into a fist.  "Can't imagine why.  You did just steal something from him, it makes sense he'd want it back."  His smooth voice was calm and slightly mocking, but Arthur could see the flat look in his eyes that chilled him to the bone.

"Can you hide us?" Arthur interrupted swiftly.

Eames turned to stare at him in shock, Paul not far behind.

"You're not going to kill us, and you can effectively cover our tracks from your bosses or whoever.  Right?"

Paul nodded once, his face heavy.  "Within reason.  I can't hide you very well if you're constantly popping up everywhere.  If you're going to hide, you need to _hide_ , at least until it cools off.  Or until I convince you to work for me," he added lightly, although Arthur knew he wasn't kidding.

"How long?"   

Paul shrugged one shoulder.  "A week.  Two at the outside."

"What makes you think Arthur can't hide us on his own?" Eames challenged.  Beside him, Arthur's stomach clenched. 

Paul was fighting a smile.  "Adorable," he said under his breath.  "Like a teddy bear."  Louder, he said, "Because the people I work for are better than Arthur.  Because there is no chance, none, that he will be able to stay in front of them, and I think he knows it."

Arthur's calm, thinking eyes met Eames's, panicked and slightly wide.  He reluctantly nodded his assent and Eames swore quietly.

"They are not, however," Paul continued, "better than me."

Eames rolled his eyes, Arthur said nothing.

"I have a place.  One week, maybe two, I hide you and buy you some fucking underwear, and in exchange, you don't start shit and you listen to what I have to say about the project I'm working on.  And should you feel compelled to chime in with some insight, I wouldn't be remiss."

Eames looked at Arthur.  Arthur closed his eyes and turned his head away.  "Fuck," Eames swore, glaring at the ceiling.

"Great.  Grab your shit.  I already checked you out."


	16. I Would Choose to be With You

Paul took them to the last place Arthur expected--his house.  Apparently having a house in LA is a thing they had in common and they didn't even know it.  The main difference, though, was that Paul's was much nicer than Arthur's. 

"I wouldn't say it's _much_  nicer," Arthur grumbled when Eames helpfully pointed this out to him.  "I mean, it's more impersonal if that's what you're into."

Eames chuckled and headed straight to the picture window at the back of the house overlooking the gaudy pool/hot tub/waterfall monstrosity he kept back there. Arthur thought he might have a permanent scowl after this.

Paul handed Eames a credit card and gestured to the laptop on the kitchen counter.  "Buy some clothes, have them overnighted." He pointed at Arthur.  "There IS a daily limit restriction on the card, so don't try buying more than one suit."  Arthur scoffed, but Paul ignored him.  He swept out of the kitchen calling back, "There's a fresh pot of that Kona coffee you like.  Help yourself."

Arthur glanced at Eames, who was glaring darkly at him.  He offered a weak apologetic smile and opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again when he realized he didn't know what to say.

"There's a guest room down that hall, I'm down that one," Paul announced as he came back in the kitchen, his footsteps not slowing as he moved through the house.  "I won't be here much, I'll be working, but here's a burner phone, my number's the only one in it."  He placed a cell phone on the counter.  "And it should be the only one you're calling.  You're in hiding, remember?" 

"Yeah, about that," Eames interrupted.  "Are you sure that being in the same town as your psychotic bosses is really the best place to lie low?"

Paul narrowed his eyes at Eames.  "Yes.  Keep your friends close, etc.  Right in their backyard is the last place they'll look.  Besides, this place is completely off the grid, and it takes time to set that up."

"Paul," Eames said, and his voice was oddly quiet.  It was the first time Eames had called him by his name, and the severity in his voice made Arthur look up in alarm, quickly gauging the distance between them.  "What have they got on you?" Eames asked.

Paul watched Eames for a long moment, the muscle in his jaw flexing, but his face calm and flat.  "Don't fuck in my pool," Paul finally commanded, fixing each of them with a glare and heading out the front door without another word.

The slam of the front door reverberated throughout the big house and Arthur felt a little stunned.  He'd been so busy hating Paul's stinking guts for doing this to him after they'd been _together_ , that he hadn't really stopped to consider why he might be doing it.  He'd just assumed it was because he was a fucking asshole who had no soul.  Although that was still a frontrunner for possible motivations, so he wasn't going to call it just yet.

"Well," Eames grinned, rubbing his hands together.  "How long do you think we should wait before we fuck in his pool?"

Arthur made a big show of checking his watch.  "I think we've got time to christen his bed first.

* * *

Afterwards, when they were both shaky and their bodies tacky with come and sweat, Eames propped himself up against the headboard and happened to glance over at the bedside table.  

On it, in a frame, was a fantastic picture of Arthur.  He was looking straight at the camera and smiling with a blinding amount of dimples while Paul kissed his cheek.  Eames picked up the frame and smeared his thumb over the picture, leaving a large swipe of come on the glass.  He glanced at Arthur to find him staring back intently.  Arthur didn't look at the picture but instead crawled to Eames, plucking it from his hands and straddling his lap.  He locked gazes with Eames and tossed the picture across the room, then kissed him deeply.  Arthur cupped his face, then slid his fingers into Eames's hair.  Their bodies were loose, warm, and fit together perfectly when Eames wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist and drew him closer.  He slotted their mouths together, Arthur's warm tongue plundering Eames's until he couldn't hear or see anything outside the sphere of Arthur.  

"You," Arthur breathed.  "It's always been you, even when it wasn't you."

Eames replied by kissing him harder, rolling them so he could press Arthur into the pillows.  He drew back so he could look at Arthur's face, open and soft and flushed from the sex they'd just had, but his brown eyes were steady and unafraid.   Eames kissed him slowly then, wanting to drink it up and wishing he could absorb Arthur into his bloodstream.  He wanted to steep himself in this moment and make it potent enough to last in his memories no matter how old he got: the day Arthur chose him.

* * *

When he woke up, he was alone.  The late afternoon sun beat in through the window, stretching across the bed and casting a surreal look to the room.  Eames fumbled on the floor for his trouser pocket and sighed when he wrapped his fingers around the poker chip.  He recounted the last 24 hours, just to make sure he remembered every detail about how he had gotten here, then went over them again.  If there was ever 24 hours to remember, this was it.  He let himself be soothed by the balm that was Arthur, in every frowny, brilliant, sexy as hell iteration.

He found him in the kitchen in his boxer briefs, propped on a bar stool and peering at the laptop.  Eames hesitated, but Arthur didn't startle when he smoothed his fingers over the lines of Arthur's shoulders and instead actually pressed back into his touch, almost unconsciously.  Eames' chest tightened oddly at the familiarity of Arthur's reaction.  He wanted to drape himself over Arthur's back, mouth kisses along his naked shoulders and neck and drag him back to bed just so he could touch, taste and explore all over again.  Instead, he dropped a light kiss on the side of Arthur's neck and got a hold of the wall of rushing emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.  "What are you up to, pet?"

"Snooping and shopping," Arthur replied offhandedly.

Eames couldn't help grinning and mouthing another kiss onto Arthur's shoulder.  "Sounds like your kind of afternoon.   Find anything?"

Arthur grunted, then stretched his arms over his head and arched his back.  Eames's mouth went dry at the ripple of muscles across Arthur's lean frame and missed the first part of what he was saying. 

"...locked down pretty tight.  Give me enough time, though, I could do some damage.  Also, I bought a suit."

Eames chanced moving a little closer and pressing them together, back to front.  He idly traced the faint bruises on Arthur's hip bone that were the exact size and shape of his fingers.  "You don't say?  Off the rack?"

"Ugh, don't say that word.  And _don't_  ask me where I got it.  I can't say it out loud."

Eames chuckled at Arthur's cheeky grin over his shoulder.  "What did you get for me, then?" Eames asked.

Arthur's smile faltered a bit, replaced with a hint of apprehension.  "I didn't, really.  I thought you might want to pick out your own."  He reached for the card and slid it closer to Eames.  "I didn't want to presume you'd like the same things you used to, so I..." His voice trailed off when Eames couldn't stop the way he reacted, frozen and rigid and hating himself for it.  

"It's fine, darling, thank you," he forced out and made himself relax.  "I would like to choose some things, ta."  He felt Arthur relax against him slightly and brushed a quick kiss against his lips.  "You didn't buy me anything, though?"  He gave Arthur an exaggerated pout just to see the flash of dimples it awarded.

"Well..." Arthur drew out the word and Eames raised his eyebrows.  "Maybe one thing, Mr. Eames."

Eames rumbled a noise of approval and spun the stool Arthur was sitting on, turning him so he could step between Arthur's thighs and bend down to capture his delectable mouth with his own.  He nipped kisses along Arthur's bottom lip until he groaned and slid his pelvis closer to Eames.

"Piss off, we're busy," Eames growled.  Arthur pulled back, confused, which was when he noticed Paul standing in the doorway. 

"Uhhh..." Arthur broke off awkwardly, panicked gaze flashing back and forth between them.

"Oh, no, please.  Make yourselves the fuck at home," Paul spit at them, dropping the bags he'd been carrying on the counter and storming out of the room.

"Now, where were we?" Eames leered at Arthur.

"Eames," Arthur chided, but he was smiling. 

Eames smiled back, then he ran his palms up Arthur's warm thighs and kissed him once more.  "Alright, darling.  I'll try not to make our generous host angry, although I just want you to understand how difficult it is for me not to rip his cock off and fling it in the hot tub."

"Yes, you're the picture of restraint," Arthur said dryly.  

"Quite."  Eames let Arthur go, enjoying the view as he left to get dressed.  He could hear Arthur's voice, then Paul's, coming from the office down the hall and the desire to eavesdrop was almost overwhelming.  He busied himself ordering an outfit online instead, the suit charcoal grey rather than black, with a salmon colored tie that reminded him of a shirt of his that Arthur had always hated.  He threw in a silver wallet chain, a pair of shoes that closely resembled his favorite ones he'd owned in limbo and a combination of casual t-shirts, vests, pants, and socks that would keep him dressed for a while.  Eames refused to order pyjamas, because fuck Paul.

He listened to their voices from down the hall, his fingers drumming on the counter.  He truly didn't want to watch them interact, but his imagination was far too good to stay in the other room, so he navigated past Paul's bedroom, grinning at the rumpled mess they'd made of the bedclothes, and sauntering into the office.

They were both huddled over a computer, Arthur's thinking frown turning down the corners of his mouth.  When he caught sight of Eames, his face softened slightly and Eames felt a thousand times better.  He stretched out on the sofa in the corner, content to let Paul assume he knew anything about whatever it was they were talking about.  

Arthur was focused on the screen, watching as Paul's flying fingers pulled something from somewhere and connected it to something somewhere else and as far as Eames was concerned, they might as well have been waving wands around.  "Huh," Arthur said in an awed tone in reference to whatever Paul was doing.  "Wow."

Eames rolled his eyes.  He changed his mind, his imagination was going to be his saving, not his undoing. "Darling, I'm going to have a swim.  Feel free to join me when you're through."

"Huh?"  Arthur didn't tear his eyes away from the screen.  "Oh, right, I will."

"There're extra suits in the pool house," Paul supplied, also focused on the screen, but not above throwing a smirk in Eames's direction.

Eames smirked right back, picturing the sheets on his bed.  "That's nice."

Two sets of eyes followed him from the room, one staring and one glaring. 

* * *

"So," Arthur broke the silence, "is your real name actually Paul?"

Paul looked up from the screen he'd been studying, turning to look at Arthur. "Yes."

"What about your last name?" Arthur asked.

"What about yours?" Paul replied, one eyebrow raised.

Arthur leaned back and shrugged a shoulder.  "Fair enough," he allowed.  "What about the service?  Are you really a Marine?"

Paul hesitated and Arthur watched him carefully.  "I'm in the US military," he finally said.

"So, I guess we're not going to do that whole 'truth' thing, then."

Paul turned back to the screen.  "I'm not even supposed to tell you that much."

"Then why did you?"

Paul didn't answer, just kept typing.  Arthur watched the back of his head from where he sat, slightly behind him.  He contemplated the shape of his ears and wondered how much he actually knew about this man.  Arthur hadn't been exactly forthright in their relationship, but he hadn't exactly lied.  Much.  Except for everything about his job.  And about being completely obsessed with Eames.  And some of the stuff about when he was a kid, and what he did after high school.  Ok, fine, he lied more than he realized. 

"There," Paul finally declared.  "That's the CCTV circuit for this area, you should be able to see who's coming and going.  Now, here are some things to watch for, just patterns I've seen them using--" He started a list, jotting notes and drawing maps of the neighborhood.  Arthur watched.  He'd been watching all afternoon.  Paul was damn good at this.  He wasn't surprised by most of his methods, but there were a few he hadn't been aware of.  He knew that Paul was hyper-aware of what he was showing Arthur, so he fully expected some tricks up Paul's unexpectedly long sleeves that he'd never run into.  Which was humbling, and intriguing, and terrifying, all at the same time.  It was probably more enlightening than Paul intended, though, so that was settling.

"Paul," Arthur said, and the pen stilled.  Arthur had carried a thousand questions around with him since he'd seen Paul standing in his living room, but now they crowded in his throat.  He swallowed, trying to force them down without choking on them.

"I wouldn't do this, Arthur," Paul said softly, not turning to meet his eyes.  "If I had _any_ \--this isn't who I am.  I just...I wanted you to know that."

Arthur sighed.  He felt very tired, all of a sudden.  "Maybe someday I will.  In the meantime, I've got some cleanup to do.  Do you mind?"

* * *

The bags Paul had previously dumped unceremoniously on the counter had annoyingly useful things like deodorant and toothbrushes, as well as infuriating things like a Moleskin and the hair gel Eames knew that Arthur used.  

Eames placed them in the guest room, then begrudgingly remade Paul's bed.  He figured he didn't have to act like a complete git.  Then he dug through the fridge, pulling out things to make a stir fry.  He'd never had a chance to cook for Arthur before, so it seemed appropriate that the first time he did so should be the time he cooked for Arthur's ex-boyfriend too.  Christ, what a mess.  This had better not last the full two weeks.

In the middle of chopping vegetables, Eames heard movement behind him.  Paul took a look at what he'd been preparing, then pulled a wok from the cupboard above the fridge.  Eames nodded his thanks as Paul grabbed a beer and settled himself on a barstool.  

Neither of them said anything for a long while, but Paul finally broke the silence.  "So there are all kinds of rumors floating around about you, but I can't tell if any of them are true."

Eames glanced at him over his shoulder before turning back to what he was doing.  "You're going to have to be a bit more specific than that, mate."

"Well, how long have you been in this business?

Eames wielded the knife with precision.  "A long time."  He popped a piece of green pepper in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.  "But that's not really a rumor."

"Is it true you can speak any language?"

" _Ich spreche nur die Wahrheit._ " 

"Are you really a forger?"

At that, Eames stilled.  Slowly, he put the knife down, wiped his hands and turned to face Paul.  "Ah.  Now that sounds like the real question."

Paul rested knowing eyes on him.  "And that sounds like not answering it."

Eames crossed his arms and rested a hip against the counter.  "Is this an interrogation, then?"

"Do you think it is?"

"For Arthur's sake, I hope it isn't.  I'd really hope you didn't go through Arthur for a chance to interrogate me."

Paul paused, his steely eyes flickering over Eames, calculating.  "You don't have to hide behind Arthur."

"I'm not hiding behind Arthur.  I don't need him to fight my battles for me."

"Is this a battle, then?" Paul asked.

"Do you think it is?" Eames challenged mockingly. 

Paul held up his hands in surrender.  He got up from the counter.  "For Arthur's sake, I hope it isn't."  Then he left, Eames's glare following him from the kitchen.

"Sodding prick," he muttered under his breath.  He regretted changing the sheets.

 

When everything was ready to eat, Eames gritted his teeth at the necessary domesticity of calling the two of them to dinner.  In the office, Paul was leaned over Arthur working at the computer, pointing out flaws in the something, something, something--, "Hey, food's ready if anyone is hungry."

Arthur blinked up at him owlishly.  "Oh, right.  Is it that late already?"  He checked the watch that used to reside on Eames's wrist but had been on Arthur's since he'd woken up in the hospital.  Eames remembered buying it.  It had been blazing hot and they'd been walking forever and he was desperate to keep the afternoon from ending.  Arthur had been wearing a linen suit and looking far too cool and unaffected by the heat, and Eames couldn't stop teasing him.  But Arthur hadn't seemed to mind.  He'd told himself he was going to wear it on jobs with Arthur so they could joke about it but ended up wearing it on every job, full stop.  It was stupid, he knew, but it made him feel better, like a part of Arthur was there with him.  And it looked perfect on Arthur's wrist.

Arthur stretched his arms above his head with a small groan, then shut the laptop and stood.  He seemed surprised and confused to find both of them looking at him.  "What?"

"Nothing," Paul said, too brightly.  "Smells good, Eames."

* * *

 


	17. That's if the Choice were Mine to Make

"Why do you think they have something on him?" Arthur asked quietly as he sank backward into the cocoon of Eames.  The bigger man curled behind him in the dark, his breath warm against Arthur's skin.  They had made it through the world's most awkward meal without anyone throwing punches, so Arthur counted it as a win, but it was strained and it was wearing on Arthur.  

Eames propped himself up on an elbow and traced his fingers idly down Arthur's arm and side.  "You sound like you don't think that."

Arthur gave a half-shrug.  "He seemed pretty intent on letting me know that he wasn't the bad guy.  I'm just trying to decide how much of it is bullshit.  I mean, he's helping us, but he kept us in town and brought us even closer to wherever they're camped.  He's hiding us, but we're also locked down in this house." Arthur hesitated, then added cautiously, "He's dropping hints that he's upset that you and I are together, but I don't honestly know how that can be true.  I don't know him at all."

Eames didn't say anything for a few moments, just continued to trace patterns on Arthur's skin.  "I watch people," he finally said.  "It's what I do.  He's hard as hell to read, but he's definitely nervous, which means he doesn't want to get caught.  There're only two people he could get caught by, us or them, and we are decidedly at a disadvantage at this point."

"Hmm.  I've been thinking about that, actually."

Eames drew his arm securely around Arthur and pulled him even closer.  "Kind of leaves a bad taste in your mouth, doesn't it?'

Arthur frowned.  "This whole thing does.  And it's not a position I'm used to being in."  He turned slightly to see Eames, his face only just visible in the darkness.  "What do you say we show ourselves around tomorrow?"

"Take a tour?" Eames asked, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"Just explore a bit."

"You mean snoop."

"Spy."

"Extract."

They grinned at each other.  

"Go to sleep, Mr. Eames."

"Then stop teasing, darling."

Arthur smiled into the night long after Eames's heavy not-quite-a-snore breathing had evened out, a honey warm glow spreading through his chest.

The next morning, Arthur woke to the smell of coffee and Eames pressing kisses down his naked spine.  "Mmph," he grumbled.  "'Kay, 'm up."

"Mmm.  Don't bother, darling," Eames said, leveling himself over Arthur.  "I've changed my mind.  This is much better.  Let's do this instead."  He smoothed his hands over Arthur's back and followed them with his lips and tongue, reveling in every slope and ridge and freckle.  His fingers dipped below the waistband of Arthur's underwear and Arthur made an interested noise, even from the nest of pillows his head was buried in.  Eames chuckled and nibbled lightly at him.  "You have to be awake for this bit, though, love.  It's a requirement of mine."  He nudged Arthur's hips, urging him to roll over.  Then he hauled himself up Arthur's chest, kissing his collarbone, jaw, and cheek, before settling his lips firmly over Arthur's.  "You..." he kissed him deeply. "Taste..." he kissed him again, thoroughly.   "Terrible."  He kissed Arthur one more time, swallowing his squawk.  Arthur pushed at him, his cheeks stained delightfully pink.  

"Jerk," Arthur grumbled.  "How about you taste something other than my mouth then."

Eames grinned.  "Yeah?  That could be arranged."

Arthur's coffee got cold.

* * *

Arthur was the one who found the wall panel in the mud room, hidden by the electrical panel.  Paul had been gone when they'd emerged from the bedroom, which wasn't surprising since their clothes had arrived and Arthur had taken one look at Eames in a suit and practically climbed him like a tree.  All in all, it was a late start to the day, so the two of them wasted no time combing through the house when they realized Paul was gone.  The wall panel was well hidden, and Arthur found it almost by accident.

"Eames!  Come take a look at this!"

Eames sauntered over from where he'd been examining the foundations.  He gave a low whistle.  "Is that what I think it is?"  Neither of them touched anything inside the panel but nestled among a slew of, no doubt, well-stocked duffel bags and backpacks was a slim silver case.

"Looks like."

"Where in the hell did he get that?"  It was a rhetorical question, but Arthur answered it anyway.

"From me."  Eames started in surprise and Arthur rolled his eyes.  "I didn't _give_ it to him, asshole.  That's the one that was under my floor.  I designed the damn case, I should recognize it."

"Huh."  Eames looked begrudgingly impressed.  "So he took two but only turned in one.  Not a bad move, really.  That would make a pretty spectacular annual bonus."

"Please stop saying nice things about him, it's making reality warp."

"Sorry, darling.  I meant, what a fucking wanker I can't believe he stole that from you."

"Better."  Arthur closed the panel gently, leaving everything untouched.  It was enough they knew it was there.  

Eames was the one who found the gun cache in the pool house.  Arthur's find gave him the idea, if he was headed out the back door via the mud room, the pool house was the next logical stop.  

"Holy.  Shit," Arthur said in awe as the entire fucking wall sank into the floor and revealed a frighteningly well-funded collection of firearms.  

"Some day I'm going to get you to look at me like that."

"You keep wearing suits like that, you've got a shot," Arthur replied, giving him an appreciative once over.    

When they were satisfied that there weren't any other storage areas they'd missed, Eames announced that his stomach insisted they eat something before he fell over and Arthur agreed.  They moved through the kitchen together, and Arthur tried to remind himself not to hold on too tightly to this.  They had only been together for a few days, not years.  He didn't own this, it wasn't his, and he had to remember that Eames deserved a chance to know if he wanted this too.  Still, he couldn't stop the happy thrill his heart gave working next to Eames in the kitchen.  He switched on the radio while Eames cooked, and he grinned at Arthur.  It was comfortable, and Arthur was more than willing to lie to himself and pretend this was something he would be able to look forward to every day.  

Then, the temperature seemed to drop 10 degrees as the opening guitar strains of a very familiar Metallica song filled the room, and Arthur felt apprehension claw its way up from his gut.  His eyes immediately sought Eames, desperate to know that he wasn't imagining things.  If the set of Eames's shoulders and jaw was any indication, he was feeling the same way.  When he turned to meet his eyes, Arthur swore there was a flash of terror behind Eames's careful facade.

Arthur forced out a nervous chuckle.   "Guess I'll never quite get used to that song again."

Eames gave him a shaky smile.  "I think it's what Ari was using for the kick."

"Yeah," Arthur agreed quietly.  He reached around Eames to turn off the radio and the silence was oppressive.  They both looked at the counter, not talking, and Arthur felt like they should talk about this but he honestly didn't know what to say.  Eames shuddered a bit and closed his eyes and Arthur's heart ached for him.  Arthur didn't know exactly what was going on in Eames' head, but he didn't think he could go another second without touching Eames, he was sure his very sanity rested on knowing that the man next to him was really there.  He shifted a little closer and they stood, shoulders touching, and breathed. Eames leaned into Arthur, accepting his support wordlessly and offering his own and Arthur didn't think it was possible, but he fell a bit more in love. 

* * *

"Wait, just wait a second, goddamn it!  I didn't mean it like that!" Arthur lunged after him, yelling.

Eames pulled on his underwear violently and spun, a ball of fury with his hands clenched at his sides.  "No, of course you didn't mean it like that, because you _can't_  love it when I do that, _Arthur,_  because I've never done it before!"

Arthur winced at the use of his name.  "I just meant that I liked it, that's all I was trying to tell you," Arthur said stiffly.

"Yeah, well, forgive me for not being okay with you confusing me in bed with someone else."

"Come on, Eames, it was _you_ I was confusing you with.  You cannot, seriously, be jealous of yourself."

Eames felt a tiny flare of rage lick behind his eyeballs.  "You're right!  I can't be.  Because _that wasn't me_!"

Arthur stood there, hands on his hips, then threw his head back and squeezed his eyes shut.  "Fuck."  He drug a hand through his hair, making the ends curl up the way Eames always loved.  "I know.  Alright?  I know that wasn't you."  Arthur looked at him beseechingly.  "Look, I'm...I'm sorry.  It's just...you look the same, and Christ, you _smell_  the same, and I promise I wasn't thinking of him, I was thinking of you, but I wasn't really doing much thinking just at that second, and...and this isn't easy."  

Eames felt his anger ebb a bit at the sight of Arthur standing naked in front of him, struggling for words.

Arthur tried again.  "I'm pretty sure we are the only two people in the entire universe with this particular relationship hurdle, and I'm trying.  I really am.  I _want_  to dump all those memories, and feelings, and start over with you.  But sometimes it sneaks up on me, and I know you know what I'm talking about.  If you think I don't see you fighting with yourself and forcing thoughts away, then you must not understand how much I notice about you.  How much I've always noticed.  Which is why" he shook his head and half laughed at himself, "the you in my dream was so fucking real."

Arthur moved toward him, slowly, broadcasting his movements like he was calming a frightened animal.  He put a hand on Eames's forearm, stroking softly with his thumb.  "That was actually what made me realize it was a dream."  When Eames didn't respond, but didn't pull his arm away, Arthur kept talking.  "I didn't have my totem.  It just...wasn't there.  I think Dom had something to do with that, but I don't really know."  He drew in a ragged breath.  "Anyway, I started to notice little things about you that were just...off.  Like, you didn't speak French, and you hummed, and when I realized you didn't remember dreamsharing--"

"Arthur."  Eames's voice was dark and terrifying, and Arthur stopped talking immediately.  He met Arthur's eyes, his mouth twisted cruelly.  "If I ever have to tell you "that wasn't me" again, EVER, you won't have to say you're sorry."

Arthur removed his hand, slowly, leaving a cold, empty feeling in its wake.  "Right," he said, his voice sounding strangled.  "Right." 

Eames saw the wounded look in Arthur's eyes and knew that he needed to stop.  He didn't want to ruin this, Arthur was the only good thing in his life and he was pushing him away.  He was just so _angry_.  He had to get out of here until he got a hold of himself.  

Eames pulled on the rest of his clothes forcefully and he couldn't bring himself to meet Arthur's eyes where he'd retreated to sit silently on the bed, watching him.  He didn't know what he was doing.  He'd been alone for so long, even before limbo, and...he just had to get out of here before he made it worse.  Arthur was the one who was good at relationships, he'd just come back after he'd cooled off a bit and Arthur could show him how to fix this.

He closed the front door quietly, but firmly.  And then he walked.  He'd briefly wished for a punching bag, but pushed the idea out of his mind.  He was determined to break from the things he'd used as coping mechanisms before because he was determined not to need them.  Until then, though, he'd find something else.  

The heat was oppressive in the late afternoon sun, and he meandered aimlessly, trying to stay in the shade when he could.  He knew he should be figuring out what to say to Arthur, or maybe even just finishing up being mad at him, but all he could think about what the shit job in Kiev they'd taken with the Cobbs, the one where Arthur had been knifed.  The job was supposed to have been easy.  It was a family secrets job, no corporate espionage, no militarization, no mafia connections, just simply brothers hating each other like God intended.  The mark's older brother had hired the Cobbs, and Dom had called him because he could use a thief but had a hunch they'd need a forge.  He'd been preparing to forge the mark's younger brother, had been following him for days and had finally, _finally_ , gotten the forge up to Arthur's standards, when the younger brother had walked into the office building they'd been squatting in.  

Eames had told the story a thousand times over pints, swearing up and down that it was true, because it _was_ , and anyway it was a good story.  

"So the guy walks in with a knife as long as my dick and starts screaming about he was going to kill whoever was fucking his wife.  Which is hilarious, because he's talking to a room that contains the world's most married couple, fucking _Arthur_ , and me.  So it's gotta be me, right?"  This always got a laugh, with a couple of elbow jabs or whistles thrown in.  "But it wasn't me, I swear, I hadn't slept with a woman the whole damn trip."  This part was true, although he didn't know if people believed it.  In fact, he hadn't slept with anyone, because he'd decided that this was going to be the job where he finally landed Arthur.  He'd been an itch in Eames's pants for longer than most people were allowed to remain, and he was determined to finally get Arthur into his bed on that job.  

"So Arthur, who's the closest to the loony bugger, turns around to look at me, and this guy goes fucking nuts.  He starts screaming and goes straight for Arthur, fucking slashing and stabbing whatever he can reach."  Eames does not, at this point, explain that the sight of blood drenching Arthur's grey suit froze him in his tracks and he was physically incapable of doing anything more than hyperventilating at that moment.  "He gets Arthur in the back and there's blood fucking everywhere.  I thought Arthur was a dead man.  But you know what he does?"  He pauses for the audience's benefit.  "He stands up, calm as fuck, punches him in the nose and then breaks both the bastard's arms.  Then he takes two steps towards me and says, "The closest hospital is 12 miles south of here," and then passes the fuck out."

That's usually the end of the story, and everyone laughs, both at Arthur's point-man practicality in the face of his own mortality, and at the number of times Eames had said the word "fuck".  But in truth, that night was one of the longest of his life.  Eames had launched himself at Arthur to catch him before he hit the floor, screaming at Mal to grab towels, rags, and anything else she could get her hands on to try and slow the blood that wouldn't quit pouring out of Arthur's body.  Dom had driven the screaming younger brother to the hospital, and Eames and Mal had worked to keep Arthur alive.  Mal was swearing in French and Eames had never been more scared in his life.  Luckily, Arthur was Arthur, and there was a full first aid kit under his desk.  Eames ripped the ruined suit off Arthur's back and realized with a gust of relief that it wasn't as bad as he'd assumed.  Eames had calmed then, cleaned the wound, and stitched him up once the bleeding had slowed.  Then he had sat next to Arthur's prone form and pressed his fingertips into his thighs to get them to stop shaking.  He had watched Arthur's beautiful face, slack in his sleep, while Mal cleaned up the site and arranged for them to get the hell out of the country once Dom got back and Eames realized he didn't want to get into Arthur's pants.  Well, he did, of course he did.   But this wasn't an itch, and it wasn't going to be solved by scratching it.  The rolling feeling in his chest that he didn't understand, which happened every time Arthur was around, was not about sex.  And he had no idea what to do about it.  He'd helped load Arthur into the car, then had taken off in the other direction.  He hadn't seen Arthur for over a year after that.  

What the fuck was he doing?  He had Arthur.  He'd had him in his arms, in his bed, and here he was, walking around like an arsehole.  Even fighting with Arthur was better than what he had before.  Eames turned around abruptly, which is how he took the taser to the chest rather than the back.  His body locked up and as he fell, thrashing and straining, four men rushed him, threw a bag over his head, and dragged him to a waiting van. 


	18. You Can Make Decisions Too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry for the delay in posting! Real life got very real but thank you for hanging with me. I'm posting the final two chapters together, I hope you enjoy! Thank you to everyone who commented, they are read and cherished, you don't even know. The Inception community on this site is so overwhelmingly supportive, and it's so nice to interact with a group of folks who feel the same way about these crazy boys that I do. Thanks for reading!

Arthur listened to the click of the front door, heavy with implication and loud in the stillness. But, he realized, it was nowhere near as loud as the silence that followed. He waited for it to open again, for Eames to come back and yell, take a swing at him, _something_ , but the silence seemed to balloon.  When the air conditioner switched off somewhere in the house, the silence crashed in on him and he lurched out of bed. He hadn't realized it was even running until it stopped, and Arthur couldn't sit there and listen to the oppressive nothing anymore.  He escaped to the bathroom and turned the shower on too warm, stayed under the spray too long and told himself that the silence he heard on the other side of the door was his imagination.  Eames just needed to cool off, he was probably back already and Arthur hadn't fucked this up forever because even though Eames was angry, he'd let Arthur apologize and then Arthur would drag him back to bed and make him understand how much he wanted him. No, he'd show him how much he wanted _this_ , the closeness they'd developed in the last few days, even after years of knowing each other.  He wanted Eames' deep voice in his ear, the soft whisper of his breath when he was sleeping against his skin, the sound of his chuckle when Arthur was being sarcastic. He wanted the furious yelling, and the wanton moaning and the exasperated sighing that came with a relationship and he wanted it with Eames. _This_ Eames. The one he'd been pining over for _ever._   

But the front door stayed closed and the house stayed silent.  

A few hours later, Arthur was sick of moping.  He furious with himself for sulking, and furious with Eames for not understanding to begin with.  He pushed at the anger, like a finger on a bruise, and kept himself moving.  He swam a few laps, checked the perimeter again, and borrowed Paul's gun kit and cleaned Rhonda.  He attempted to read, but after flinging a few books across the room, he decided that working out was more productive.  Paul had a treadmill tucked away, and while he ran, Arthur tried to figure out the magical combination of words to say to Eames.  He wanted to make him realize that he hadn't meant to hurt him, but Arthur eventually gave up when every mental conversation devolved into him defending himself, loudly.

A few hours after that, Arthur was sick of being mad and just wanted Eames to come back.  He was fidgety and nervous in the big empty house, and the roll of emotions in his gut wasn't going away.  What the hell was taking Eames so long?  Sure, fine, Arthur was the bad guy, whatever.  He just wanted Eames to get his ass back so they could finish fighting, then finish fucking, and then move the fuck on.  

Except he wasn't coming back.  And neither, for that matter, was Paul.  

When Arthur had restrained himself from putting his fist through a wall for the third time, he finally decided he couldn't take it anymore. He settled in front of the computer and stared at the black screen, trying to convince himself that he wasn't spying on his lover because it was different if you were just concerned for their wellbeing.  Right?  Or was this a slippery slope and if their roles were reversed--

" _No, fuck it,"_  Arthur thought.  " _Ask forgiveness later,_ " and he set about expanding the CCTV area he could survey.  Twenty minutes later, when he watched an unmarked van haul a twitching Eames away, he felt the cold, unmistakable calm of a fury that surpassed putting holes in walls. He wanted to put holes in people.  

"Oh, you fuckers. That," he said with suppressed rage, "was a very bad idea."

* * *

A bright clank of metal pealed in the small space when Eames tried to lift his arms.  The handcuffs scraped against the metal chair legs and the sound went straight to the sharp throb behind his eyes and he winced.  He ached everywhere.  

"Comfortable?" came the cruel sneer from across the table.

The craggy-faced man opposite him looked vaguely annoyed, greying hair at his temples and an attitude of taking zero bullshit from anyone, but especially not Eames.  Eames flitted his eyes over the room, dragging details in as fast as he could before returning to the face in front of him.  The badge on his hip was unnecessary.  Eames has been in a few interrogation rooms in his time.  

"Where am I?" he asked anyway.  Get him talking, pick up clues, figure out what the hell was going on.  Eames was good at this.  Hell, he'd had years of experience.  Limbo years, but they rang true enough.  "Who are you?"

"I'm your worst nightmare.  And you're about to have a very bad day."

Eames fought the urge to roll his eyes.  Seriously?  Did people actually say that in real life?  Eames blinked his eyes instead, hard, willing away the headache that seemed to be intensifying and tried to focus.  American accent, cheap suit, standard police-issued Beretta in his shoulder holster.  Small window allowing a little sunlight in, either mid morning or late afternoon depending on which direction they were facing.  Eames couldn't get a good look at Worst Nightmare's watch to know for sure.  Eames took a longer, lazier glance around and allowed his fingers to explore the handcuffs.  Solid, cool metal stretched his arms straight down, one pair on each side.  The air smelled...almost antiseptic.  Odd.  A small camera in the upper corner of the room watched as he gave the cuffs an experimental tug.   _Clank_.  

"Do you know why you're here, Mr. Eames?" Worst Nightmare folded his hands neatly on top of the manila folder sitting in front of him.

"Don't--" Eames clenched his jaw, cutting off the words.  "No idea," he said instead.  "Care to enlighten me, mate?"  He forced a tight smile and tried to listen for what wasn't being said.

"You have information that we want, Mr. Eames.  Information that is very important to us.  We've been reliably informed that you and other members of your organization have access to this information, and you're going to release it to us, whether you want to or not."

Eames blinked.  Then he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.  "Huh."  

Detective Nightmare paused and frowned, clearly thrown.  "Do you have something to say?"

Eames raised his eyebrows and shook his head.  "Me? Oh, no, no.  Please go on, you were saying something about information?"

Detective Nightmare frowned again, but eventually continued, "As I was saying, you have information that is very important to us, and we--"

"It's just that you look sort of familiar. Have you arrested me before?" Eames interrupted.

"That is irrelevant, Mr. Eames."

"Of course, of course.  My apologies."

The frown was definitely a scowl now.  "The information that we're looking for--"

"Do you have a bathroom?"

"MR. EAMES."

Eames shot him an easy grin.  "Sorry, mate, I'd hold off, but you sound like you're gearing up for a long speech and I don't want to interrupt you later when you're right in the middle."

A loud rumble started underneath Eames's feet, a slight tremor shaking the building they were in, there for a split second, but gone just as quickly.  The whole thing had lasted the space of a heartbeat.  Eames met the officer's eyes with a smile.  "Well, at least I know I'm still in California, eh?  Earthquakes everywhere, am I right?" 

Detective Nightmare shoved back his chair noisily and came around to uncuff Eames.  He kept his gun side angled away from Eames, he unlocked only the cuff attached to the chair and reattached it to his other wrist before doing the same on the other side.  Eames was effectively handcuffed twice, hands in front of him, no opportunity given to overwhelm the officer and steal his gun.  So, the detective knew what he was doing at least.  

"An armed guard will escort you to the restroom directly across the hall.  Do not assume he won't shoot you."

Eames nodded gravely, just to give him the satisfaction of being in control and having the upper hand, and watched as he knocked on the door to signal the guard.  True enough, the room was directly across the hall and the guard accompanied Eames all the way to the urinal.  Eames got absolutely no response to his leered, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," and when he finished and went to wash his hands, the guard kept his hand on the butt of his gun.  Eames stifled the sigh that was on his lips.

His headache was getting, impossibly, worse. He flipped on the cold water, splashing his face and let it run over his wrists, dripping off the metal cuffs. Christ, he hadn't had a headache this bad in years. Not since he was a kid in the service. In fact, it felt like an old-school...

"Somnacin headache," he whispered to his reflection, his eyes widening in recognition.  It felt like the headaches he'd get when he was doing dream runs 15 years ago before the chemists got the blends perfected.  

Then, instead of his own surprised blue eyes staring back at him, it was Arthur's beautiful brown ones. He blinked, and the Arthur in the mirror blinked back. 

Relief, anger, and fear rushed through him at the same time.  A dream. This was a fucking dream. He tried on a smile, just to see the familiar dimples flash out at him, and worked on being calm.  Limbo reared its ugly head, and the idea of being in a dream space, something that used to bring him a thrill, now brought only dread.  He pushed this thought aside, now was not the time to consider the long-term career effects being in limbo could have on him, and tried to get a handle on himself.  He focused on Arthur, the face in front of him in the mirror, the familiar lines, creases, and textures of the point man were an exact replica.  God, he adored this man.  He'd always been impressed with Arthur's cool head in a crisis, and while more than a few times he'd cursed it, he admired his impeccable control also.  He tried to decide what Arthur would do in this situation. He would stay in the dream as long as possible and try to get information: what they were after, who was behind it.  He would be composed and in control and not have 30 years of limbo clawing its way up from his gut, threatening to choke him.  He would never give in to the furious terror at the back of his throat and without stopping to think, turn and attack the guard with every ounce of anger and fear in him.  But Eames wasn't Arthur, not even on a good day, and this was definitely not shaping up to be a good day.

Without a pause, Eames threw himself at the guard, swinging both fists like a hammer.  _Come on, shoot me. Let him shoot me. Please._  But Eames's body took over, and the guard barely got the gun out of the holster before Eames was beating him senseless.

Eames pounded the guard into the bathroom floor until sweat dripped into his eyes and his hands and arms were numb.  He stopped only when a flood of projections broke down the door, with Detective Nightmare leading the charge.  Eames pulled the gun out of the guard's grip and took in the confusion on the detective's face and grinned as he tucked it under his chin and pulled the trigger.  At the last split-second, he realized he'd forgotten to drop the Arthur forge.

When Eames woke up, gasping and straining, he found himself strapped to a gurney, the PASIV still whirring gently as Detective Nightmare slumbered on peacefully next to him. 

Eames tried to catch his breath and took a quick, panicky look around at the small room where he was being held. It looked and smelled vaguely like a hospital, although he highly doubted that's where he was.

"Eames," came the pointed whisper to his left and he tried to crane his neck around to see.  

"Marjorie?"  Eames asked.  The tall woman came fully around into his line of sight, her unmistakable mane of curly blonde hair naming her even if it was pulled back out of her face.  "It's Marjorie, right?" 

"Shh," she whispered back, then moved around to unhook him from the IV line.  "They want to know about forging.  They've been after it for months.  Pretend you don't know anything, this might go easier."

Eames grimaced.  "Bit late for that, love."

Her hands stilled.  "Shit."

Eames felt a frown settle onto his features, grim with determination.  At least Arthur couldn't forge, he needed to make sure they knew that they already had the right guy, no need to keep looking.  He cast his forger's eye on the woman next to him, the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the calm, sure movements of her hands as she wound the PASIV line back up.  "I heard you were dead.  You look good," Eames said with a grin.

Marjorie shot him a confused look, but couldn't keep the small smile off her face that his teasing brought out.  "How did they even find you?  I was throwing out all the non-forging names I could think of, but I didn't think any of them would give you up."

Eames's grin dropped.  "Arthur.  Did you give them Arthur?"

Her eyes met his, the flash of guilt the only answer he needed.  Eames clenched his jaw and let his head fall back against the gurney, his eyes slipping closed.  

"Look, I'm sorry, alright?  I'm trying to save my ass, here.  I didn't think he'd rat you out," she hissed at him, making a perfunctory check on the man still sleeping on the cot next to him.  

"He didn't," Eames said quietly.  Marjorie shot him a sharp look but said nothing.  "How much time is left?" Eames asked, trying to view the PASIV.

She checked.  "Thirty seconds."

The door opened and in walked Paul, the fucking asshole, wearing fatigue pants and a t-shirt and standing at parade rest in the corner and pointedly not looking Eames in the face. 

"Paul," Eames spit out, like it was a cuss word. 

Marjorie looked between them quickly.  "Well, since you boys know each other, I'll just--," she said, hedging toward the door.

"No," Paul said simply and she froze, then stood with her back to the wall, waiting out the last few seconds before the timer ran out.  

Finally, the "Detective" woke up and Marjorie moved to help him take out the IV.  Once he was sitting and rubbing at the spot where the needle had been, Marjorie busied herself winding up the line and fussing with the machine, very obviously trying to blend into the wall.

The Detective watched Eames carefully, his eyes cold and hard and disconcertingly shrewd.  "Well, that was some pretty fancy trick you pulled down there."  

Eames studied him right back.  Definitely military, or at least ex-military.  He wasn't wearing a uniform, but everything about him screamed "officer" to Eames.  "Hmm?  Trick?  I'm not sure what you mean."  Eames offered a pleasant, blank smile, his head pounding all the while.  Whoever their chemist was had no idea what the fuck they were doing.

Officer Detective Nightmare finished rolling down his sleeve and levered himself off the cot.  "Then I'll make it very clear."  He braced his arms around Eames's prone form, getting in his face.  "We want to know everything you can tell us about forging."

"Oh, forging!" Eames said, relief evident in his voice.  "That's no problem, mate, I'll tell you anything you want to know.  Happy to help.  Except, of course, there're a few things that are inherently instinctive about it that I don't know that I could accurately describe, you understand."  He offered an easy smile.  "Like how to do it.  And how to control it.  And who else can do it.  And, really, anything else about it."

"Is that right?" the man smirked.  "You sure you don't feel like talking to us?"

"Whatever are you on about?" Eames asked.  "I'll talk all you want!  I'm talking right now.  Come on, let's palaver.  Let's discuss.  Let's chin wag.  I'll start.  I'm Eames, and you are...?" 

The man backed up, moving across the room to Marjorie and holding out a hand.  She placed a clipboard in it and he flipped through it, ignoring Eames.  "You're awfully cocky for someone who is tied down."

"Well," Eames said modestly, "it's not the first time I've been tied down, speaking of cocks." 

The man narrowed his eyes slightly, still focused on the papers in front of him.  "What about this 'Arthur' we've heard so much about?  Would he talk?"  

Eames snorted derisively.  "Arthur?  He's a low-level grunt.  Who gave you that name?"

Detective Nightmare looked at Marjorie, who did a fairly good job of remaining impassive, then Paul.  

"Oh, our girl Marjorie here assures me that he knows a few things.  Isn't that right, Marjorie?  Anything you'd like to contribute to that statement?"  

Her eyes flickered apprehensively between the two of them, unconsciously wiping her hands on her pants.  "Honestly?  I was just trying to save my own ass, I was throwing out any name I could think of."

Paul stepped forward slightly, addressing the wall somewhere over the Detective's left shoulder.  "It seems his assessment is fairly accurate, sir.  From my observations, Arthur runs research prior to a project, gets the target's financials, family tree, that kind of thing.  I don't think he'll have a lot of information about the process we can strip from him."

"Hmm."  The Detective dismissed the information with a nod of his head and Eames felt the knot in his chest loosen a bit.  Neither of them was mentioning the files Arthur was rumored to keep on every member of the dreamshare community, years worth of compiled data ranging from affiliations and known aliases to preferred kinds of takeout.  He'd never seen the files, but knowing Arthur, Eames had no doubt they existed.

"And what about Cobb?"

Eames grinned at him, cold and humorless.  "Cobb is not currently one of my favorite people, and definitely, someone I'd enjoy throwing under the bus.  And he is definitely someone I'd peg as a talker.  Unfortunately for me, he doesn't know anything about anything, the useless git."

"Interesting.  Not one of your friends knows anything useful. I guess there's just no point in us bringing any of them in and questioning them, then, is that what you're telling me?"

Eames glared.  "I don't have friends, I have business contacts.  And I don't know why you're hung up on those two, they don't forge, do they."  He had reached the end of his patience and he was done playing.  He needed the Detective's attention focused on him, and him alone.  "Who are you people anyway?"

The man regarded him for a moment, then said, "My name is Brent McCarthy, I'm sure you know Marjorie, and this here is Paul."

"Yeah, we've met," Eames said shortly.

"Have you?  And where did you two run across one another?"  McCarthy asked with the air of a man who already knew the answer.

"Oh, we bumped into one another when he was investigating Arthur." Eames tried to keep himself from sneering as he said it.

McCarthy blinked in mock surprise.  "But didn't you hear?  Once we heard we had a genuine forger on hand, well, we weren't investigating Arthur anymore."

It was Eames's turn to blink.

"No, we weren't going to pass up a chance to learn from...what did Pierre call him?  The worst, but the best at what he does?  Something like that."

"Ugh, you got my name from Pierre?  What a wanker, I knew I didn't like that ugly mother fucker for a reason.  Hey, I've been trying to get him a message, can you help me with that?  If you see him again, I want to you to tell him that "Eames thinks you're a dick face."  Can you do that for me?  And by that, of course, I mean--"

Paul cut in with a sigh.  "Sir, you're wasting your time.  Eames isn't going to give us what we're looking for, he's a criminal and has no redeeming moral qualities.  We could tell him there were ten thousand lives at stake and he still wouldn't volunteer information."

"Well, yeah, but _are_  there ten thousand lives at stake?" Eames asked dryly. 

"Besides, he has no motivation to give us good information, so we won't be able to trust anything he says."  Paul continued.  Eames acknowledged the validity of the statement with an inclination of his head.

McCarthy calmly turned another page on the clipboard and continued reading.  "And what are you suggesting, Paul?"

"I recommend you take him out of the equation and save yourself the headache,"  Paul reported calmly.  "It's the best tactical decision."  Eames hated him with the fire of a thousand suns. 

"Hmm," McCarthy said again, finally flipping the papers closed and handing it back to Marjorie.  "Set it up again.  Same amount of time."  She hesitated, then nodded.

Eames felt a small stab of panic but squelched it immediately.  The increase in his heart rate, though, sent another lance of pain surging through his head and his vision turned pink around the edges.  If he was feeling the effects of the Somnacin blend, he couldn't imagine what Detective Nightmare was experiencing.  Maybe it was a bluff.  

"Oh, are we going under again?  Brilliant, I'll get a chance to show off."  Eames laid back with a sigh and closed his eyes, making a show of shifting to get comfortable.

McCarthy rounded on Eames, getting in his face again.  "Mr. Eames," he began, his voice low and cold, "you can joke all you want, but I am going to extract the information I want from you and there's nothing you can do to stop me."

Eames bit back the laugh that immediately bubbled to the surface and let the anger he felt at the whole situation overpower him.  "Mr. McCarthy.  I _will_  joke all I want because you have no idea what you're getting yourself into here."  Eames's eyes burned intently into his.  "I have outlived people that were twice the man you are, so you just go ahead and take a run at me, especially now that I can see you coming.  I guarantee that by the time we're done, that headache you're sporting will be the least of your worries."

McCarthy gritted his teeth, but before he got a chance to reply, the entire compound was plunged into darkness.  The room they were in blinked into blackness so thick Eames thought he might be inhaling it and he had a choking urge to giggle or cough, anything to break the stillness they were all shocked into.  

Four very heavy seconds later, the yellow emergency power lights flickered to life and started blinking, a long, steady strobing.  McCarthy's haggard face flashed in and out and Eames couldn't stop the laughing grin he bared at him. 

"See? You've got much bigger things to worry about, mate."

McCarthy glared and spun around as the building's sirens began to blare their warning. 

A recorded female voice calmly informed them, _"Attention. There has been a report of an emergency on the premises. Please proceed calmly to the nearest exit."_  Then there was a series of five piercing siren wails and the voice started over.  _"Attention. There has been a report of an emergency..."_

McCarthy was shouting something in Paul's ear over the noise, but Paul was frowning and shaking his head. McCarthy looked like he was going to explode, but Paul shook his head again, drew his gun from the holster on his hip and stood next to Eames, pointing it at the floor.  When the siren voice was on its third repeat, the door to the room burst open and half a dozen men swarmed the room, taking up tactical defense positions and closing and locking the door behind them. 

Eames watched the proceedings with interest, all the while wiggling to try and reach the gurney straps while the sirens covered the noise.  Marjorie made herself as small as possible in the corner with the cot, her eyes wide and her face pale, but far from being terrified.  She could have been plotting, for all Eames could tell.

In the middle of the fifth repeat, the siren stopped abruptly. The lights continued to strobe, and then the siren started again. 

" _Attention. There has been a report of a fire in the building.  Please proceed calmly to the nearest exit."_

The siren cut into Eames's skull and made his teeth ache. His fingers stretched uncomfortably, trying in vain to reach the straps, and his vision started to pulse.  He wondered if he was going to be sick. 

" _Attention. There has been a report of a fire in the building.  Please proceed calmly to the nearest exit."_

McCarthy looked like he might be feeling similarly. After a moment of indecision, he tapped two of the men on the shoulder and directed them with hand gestures to split up and investigate the "fire". 

Paul didn't look pleased, but the men went without question.  Eames gave up on the straps, closed his eyes and focused on not vomiting.  He wasn't getting anywhere anyway.  He tried instead to picture Arthur. At first, all his feeble brain could come up with was the forge he'd done, but eventually, it managed to conjure up a perfect replica of Arthur's beautiful scowl.  After that, the images came easily, scrolling behind his eyelids like a heart-wrenchingly sweet and, at times, slightly pornographic slideshow.  There was Arthur leaning across a desk to examine a maze, there he was with his head thrown back in laughter, there he was sleeping with his hair flopped in his face, there he was shirtless and moaning in ecstasy, there he was strafing down a hallway and taking out projections with chilling accuracy.  Eames could picture him as he'd first seen him, impossibly young, and as he'd seen him when he walked off the plane carrying Dom's PASIV, impossibly old.  He could see him bleeding on a table in front of him, and confidently flying a plane, and writing endless notes in his messy sprawling handwriting.  He could see Arthur bringing him tea and teasing him in French and being infuriatingly sexy without trying.

It made his chest ache, but the blaring siren and droning warning were suddenly bearable.  

" _Attention. There has been a report of--"_ Silence.  Then, " _Attention. There has been a report of an intruder in the building.  Please proceed calmly to the nearest exit."_

Eames's eyebrows climbed and a smile that felt distinctly like a smirk stretched across his face.  McCarthy frowned determinedly and directed two more men to investigate.  Eames tried to catch Paul's eye, but Paul had raised his gun slightly and was focused on the door.  McCarthy crossed his arms and watched the door also, and the emergency notice wailed on.  All at once, Eames was feeling much better. 

After ten repeats of an intruder in the building, the siren cut out again abruptly.  Each of them froze, waiting.  The silence stretched, and Eames wondered if they were all holding their breath or if it was just him.  

" _Attention. There has been a report of a weather event in the area.  Please proceed to an internal room on the lowest level of the building."_

"Oh, bravo Arthur," Eames chuckled to himself.  "Controlling the weather now, are we?"  He waited to see if McCarthy would send anyone else out of the room, but apparently McCarthy was done sacrificing grunts on the altar.  

" _Attention. There has been a report of a weather event in the area.  Please proceed to an internal--"_ the rest of the announcement was drowned out by what sounded like an explosion.  It wasn't particularly close, must have been at the opposite end of the compound.   Still, it caused several people to swear softly and eyes to scan the ceiling.  Approximately 45 seconds passed before a second, much louder, much closer explosion sounded, making the walls rattle.  This time, Eames could hear McCarthy cursing, then directing the final two guards to "figure out what the fuck was going on and stop it from coming this way."  But Eames already knew what was coming this way.  Eames could picture it, and Arthur's anger would be cold, and vicious, and delicious.

The room was empty again except for the four of them, and the tension was high as they all watched the door.  A third explosion ripped through the air and Eames wondered if Arthur knew where he was being held or if he needed to worry about being caught in the crossfire.  McCarthy looked at Paul, frowning, but Paul shook his head vehemently and took another step closer to Eames.  

He needn't have worried. Moments later, the door handle rattled, then shook violently before tumbling to the ground as it was broken off from the other side.

"Darling!"

Arthur strode purposefully into the room, directly to McCarthy and shot him in the knee.  McCarthy crumpled to the ground howling.  Arthur knelt calmly next to the fallen man and pointed the gun at his head. Arthur had an AK slung across his back that Eames recognized from Paul's stash, and a bulletproof vest strapped over his Oxford.  He looked good enough to eat. 

"Is there anyone else that's looking for this information?"  Arthur asked forcefully. McCarthy grimaced and moaned, but managed to shake his head.  Arthur turned to look up at Paul.  "Is there anyone else that's looking for this information?"  

"No," Paul confirmed very calmly, his own gun pointed somewhere around Arthur's ankles, but Eames could see the safety was still on.  

"Military?" Arthur asked, his voice hard.  

"No," Paul said again.  "They're military, but it's not sanctioned."  

Arthur nodded once, then turned and shot McCarthy in the head.  Eames felt an alarmed shock course through him.  "Arthur!"  

"Sending a message," Arthur said flatly.   He raised the gun at Paul and stared at him, breathing labored, but eyes hard and glittering as diamonds.  Paul lowered his gun all the way and looked passively back at him.  

"Paul, get the fuck out of here," Eames practically shouted.  Arthur said nothing but didn't move as Paul holstered his gun, turned and headed out the door, not looking back.  When the door rattled shut behind him, Arthur turned to Marjorie.  "Marjorie, right?"  He waited for her to nod before he continued.  "I assume you were not a willing participant, correct?"  She nodded frantically.  "Good answer.  Are there any other PASIVs in the building?"  She hesitated, then nodded again.  "Yours?"  

"Yes," she confirmed.  

Arthur gestured with the gun.  "Go get it, then leave by the east entrance.  Know where it is?"  Another nod.  "We are better off splitting up from here."  

"I agree," she stated, a tiny thread of relief in her words.  "Thank you, Arthur."

Arthur didn't acknowledge her thanks, just checked his watch, which Eames was thrilled to see was actually  _his_ watch, and reported, "You've got five minutes.  You can make it in two if you run."

She nodded, then hightailed it out the door.  Arthur moved immediately to Eames, tucking Rhonda in his waistband and raising shaky hands to Eames's cheeks.  He pressed a hard, bruising kiss to Eames's lips.  "After we get out of here, I am considering myself forgiven."

"Darling,"  Eames said fondly while Arthur worked on removing the straps.  "Oh, are we not going to take advantage of me being tied up?"

Arthur looked up at him from where he worked loosening the ankle straps, the corner of his mouth curving up.  "We're a bit pressed for time, Mr. Eames."

"But we've got five minutes, darling!  Plenty of time!"  Eames launched himself off the gurney and moved to pack up the PASIV Eames recognized as Dom's.  

Arthur had already moved to the door and was checking sight lines down the hallway.  "I'm not sure that's something to brag about, Eames."  He grabbed a black backpack from where he'd left it outside the door.  "Besides," he hauled Eames in for one more kiss before handing him a gun from the bag, "I'm planning on taking a lot longer than five minutes."

"Hmph," Eames mock-grumbled as he checked the clip.  "Fine, but I expect the world's best "I-can't-believe-we-survived-that" sex in exchange for my sacrifice here today."

"Gladly."  Arthur shouldered the bag and hoisted the AK.  "Let's survive, first."

"Lead on."


	19. And You Can Have this Heart to Break

Arthur didn't stop to explain, just jerked his head.  "This way."  He'd memorized the layout before he left, but it looked smaller on paper.  Arthur sprinted through twists and turns of the complex knowing Eames would keep up, and hit the fire emergency exit at a run, barely pausing to slither down the fire escape stairs and counting off seconds in his head.  Eames landed heavily next to him and threw an uncertain grin his way.  Arthur glanced at his watch, his breath coming fast.  "Shit," he said, grabbing Eames's sleeve and hauling him forward.  "We've gotta move."  He dragged Eames behind him, directly across a parking lot and behind a low decorative landscaping wall.

"Arthur, where the hell are--"

Eames was cut off by a giant explosion behind them that ripped the front off the squat brick building.  They both dropped into a defensive crouch, arms up to cover their eyes.

"Christ, pet.  You sure know how to make an exit."

"Ah, fuck.  I knew I forgot something," Arthur said, scowling as he watched a fireball roll out of the gaping hole.

"What?"

"Marshmallows," Arthur grinned at Eames as the light from the fire flickered across his face.  Eames blinked at him before throwing back his head and laughing like Arthur hadn't heard him do since before limbo.  It was a great sound.

"Fuck, you are delightful, darling."  Eames hauled him in by his bulletproof vest for a quick kiss and Arthur felt his chest squeeze.

He cleared his throat.  "Come on, I stole Paul's car.  It should get us to the airport."

"Where are we going?"

Arthur tipped a cocky smile his way.  "Anywhere you want."

The flight was long, uneventful, and quiet.  It gave them both a chance to think, plan, and settle, and Arthur appreciated Eames giving him a chance to switch off.  He focused on flying, his mind finally getting a chance to process.  He felt a little emotionally wrung out and needed a breather, even from Eames.  It was definitely better to have him nearby, though.  He snuck a glance at his lover in the co-pilot's seat, flipping through Arthur's Moleskin and doodling small cartoons in the margins.  He couldn't help the fond smile he felt tugging at his lips.  Eames had been through so much.  They both had.  But for as often as he saw the dark, brooding side of Eames: the vestigial leftovers of a life lived alone longing for a deeper connection, he also saw the happy-go-lucky version of Eames he'd known for so long: the one who liked his job and surrounded himself with people, but kept everyone at an emotional distance.  Truth be told, Arthur genuinely liked the way the two halves balanced each other out.  He only hoped he'd be the one that would help Eames blur the lines between the two.

When they finally settled into a hotel room in Paris, it felt right, like a corresponding bookend to how they met.  Arthur exited from the shower after washing off the dredge of travel and tried to push down the irrational thought of that meaning this was an ending.  He glanced through the open balcony door and saw the back of Eames as he looked out over the night, the moonlight trickling over his hair, shoulders, his arms braced against the railing.  His fingers were unconsciously propped as if he were holding a cigarette, which he seemed to notice the same time Arthur did, as he curled his fingers into a fist and then relaxed them again.  Eames drew a deep breath of the balmy night air and rolled his shoulders.  Arthur's fingers twitched also, the desire to touch him catching him by surprise.  Then he remembered that he could, any time he wanted, and he approached Eames, the towel wrapped around his waist not enough to stop the goosebumps that rose when he exited into the night air.  He enveloped Eames from behind, resting his cheek against the bunched muscles of Eames's back and held on.  Eames drew his fingers idly over Arthur's arms and looked at the sky.

"Nice night," Eames murmured.

"Mmm," Arthur conceded.  He drew lazy circles over Eames's stomach with his thumbs, then dipping down to tuck them into his waistband and spreading his fingers over Eames's hips.  "Come to bed?"

Eames shifted to look at Arthur's face and caught sight of his naked torso.  "Oh, hello," he said with a grin, turning in Arthur's arms.  Arthur felt the warmth of his gaze flood down his limbs, warming him all over. Eames cupped his hands over Arthur's jaw and stroked his thumbs over Arthur's cheekbones.  Arthur looked back at him, his heart in his throat, for as long as he could.  The intensity in Eames's gaze was too much.  He was too close, too real, too perfect and all of a sudden Arthur couldn't get enough air.  He closed his eyes before the ridiculous tears he could feel brewing threatened to spill over.  He reached blindly to kiss Eames, taking every heart-stopping moment he'd thought he'd never see Eames again and pouring them into the kiss.  He twisted his fingers in the fabric of Eames's shirt and licked into his mouth, wet and hot and messy.  The touch of Eames's tongue against his caused them both to groan and the sound spun up Arthur's desire even more.  He tugged Eames even closer and pressed up against him and tried to tell him with his body how very much Eames meant to him.  Every second pouring over the computer, every bullet fired in his path, every charge laid and detonated were fractions of the extremes that Arthur would go to keep from losing Eames.  He had to know how Arthur felt, he had to.

Eames was kissing him back, thoroughly, passionately, and expertly turning him inside out.  When Arthur broke apart for air, he rested his forehead against Eames'.  "Come to bed," he said again, his voice low and wrecked.  Eames shivered slightly and bit his bottom lip and Arthur had to take a step back before he tackled him and had him on the balcony and he didn't care who saw them.

Instead, Arthur took Eames's hand and walked backwards, tugging him along.  He bit his own lip and listened to the low sound of want that Eames issued from his chest.  Eames crowded him into the hotel room and kicking the door shut behind him.  "You are wearing entirely too much clothing, darling," Eames said, running his fingers down the cool skin of Arthur's back and back up his thighs to grab his ass.  He nibbled a long line of kisses down Arthur's neck and across his shoulders and Arthur focused on making his wobbly knees hold him up.

"Me?!" Arthur said indignantly.  He caught Eames's shirt collar in his teeth and pulled back just to watch Eames's pupils dilate.  "Well, let me fix that."  With one tug, Arthur let the towel fall to the floor.

Eames pulled back and stared at Arthur.

"Good lord, darling, you are a work of art."

Arthur snorted lightly.  "Says the man with actual works of art on his body who creates actual works of art with his body."

"I couldn't create anything like you, pet.  Trust me.  If I could, I'd be rich."

"You are rich," Arthur pointed out, working buttons on Eames's shirt and tugging it off him.

"Sofa change compared to this."  He gripped Arthur's waist, hauling him up against his body.  Arthur couldn't stop stroking Eames's warm skin, the broad strokes of ink and firm muscles on his lightly furred chest drew him like a magnet.

Eames toed out of his shoes and walked Arthur back to the bed.  Arthur hauled himself back across the mattress, not wanting to break eye contact with Eames and watched him as he started to disrobe.

"Slower," Arthur asked, his throat dry, and Eames gave him a slow smile.  He dropped his belt on the floor and thumbed the button on his waistband open.

"Like this?" Eames teased, drawing his zipper down inch by inch, and letting his trousers hang from his hips.  His cloth-covered erection beckoned, begging to be touched and Arthur licked his lips.

"Yeah, like that," Arthur said, his voice sounding slightly strangled.  He didn't quite sit on his hands to keep himself still, but it was a near thing.

Eames tugged down his pants and underwear to the top of his thighs, his hard cock springing free.  Eames groaned quietly as he palmed himself, his eyes intense on Arthur.  At that, Arthur couldn't take any more.  He crawled forward to the edge of the bed and stayed on his hands and knees.  He took Eames's hand away and instead pressed it to the back of his own head.   Then he hooked a finger into the waistband of Eames's underwear, the fabric straining across his thighs, and pulled him closer.  He couldn't stop the way his breath sped up as he nosed over the soft curls at the base of his cock.  The warm gusts of air made Eames shiver.  Arthur parted his lips slightly and ran them up the thick shaft, softly teasing, tasting, and when he reached the head, added in a flash of tongue that made Eames swear softly and lean his head back.  Arthur grinned to himself and used his hand to pull back Eames's foreskin gently before enveloping him with his mouth.  He kept his suction warm and wet and soft, the way he himself liked it, and Eames didn't seem to have any complaints either because he tightened his fingers in Arthur's hair and whispered, "Christ, darling."  He spread the saliva with his hand, stroking everything he couldn't fit in his mouth and loving the sounds he was wringing from Eames.  He cupped Eames's balls, fingering them lightly as he withdrew to take in just the head, sucking in fierce short bursts.

"Ah...CHRIST, darling!" Eames panted.  "Stop teasing."

Arthur pulled off completely, rising to his knees and grinning.  He knew his dimples were showing because when he moved closer, Eames ran his thumbs over the places he knew they were before kissing him senseless.  Arthur grabbed Eames's ass and hauled them together, their cocks brushing and both of them gasping at the contact.

"Changed my mind," Eames panted.  "Don't stop teasing."

"No?" Arthur whispered.

"No.  More teasing," Eames whispered back, running his wide palms over Arthur's shoulders, back, and chest.  He kissed up Arthur's throat and Arthur's eyes slipped closed and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly.

"Good idea.  Come here, Mr. Eames," Arthur said, low and dark.  Eames kissed him once more before pulling back to shuck the rest of his clothing as quickly as possible.  Arthur sat back on the pillows and waited impatiently, his untouched erection dark red and throbbing.  But when Eames finally maneuvered up the bed, he took his time.  He kissed his way up Arthur's legs, starting at his ankles and licking the sensitive, ticklish places on Arthur's knees.  He kissed the hair on his thighs, bit softly on his hipbones, and completely ignored Arthur's aching cock in order to lick his abs, navel, and chest.  When he scraped his teeth over Arthur's nipple, Arthur arched off the bed, his cock dragging deliciously across Eames's stomach.  The high whine of want that slipped out only made Eames grin.  He scowled back, but it made Eames grin more and lick his other nipple into hardness.

"Ok, changed my mind," Arthur gritted out.  "This was a bad idea.  Teasing is stupid."

Eames chuckled, and then without warning, swallowed Arthur down so fast he saw stars.  Arthur's eyes rolled back in his head and he moaned as Eames sucked him down over and over, Arthur hitting the back of his throat every time.  

"Oh, fuck, Eames," Arthur groaned as his entire universe shrank to ten fingers gripping his hips and two lips and a tongue making him forget all the shit that had ever kept them apart.  God, how he loved this man.  Those three words bubbled at the edge of his brain, but the gate between there and his lips seemed to be rusted shut.  He settled for moaning Eames's name into the night and twisting his fingers in Eames's hair.

Eames pulled off with an obscene _pop_  and grinned up at Arthur.  "You sound like we might need to slow down."  He kissed the inside juncture of Arthur's thigh and heaved himself up.  "Because we," he kissed Arthur's lips, "are not done yet.  And I," he kissed him again, "want to fuck you."

Eames could clearly see the spike of arousal that went through Arthur at his words, and yet he took his time with slow, heady kisses that took Arthur's brain offline.  He opened him up with his fingers, gently, never rushing, calming Arthur down with words whispered in three different languages into his skin.  Maybe Eames said fuck instead of calling it what it was, but Arthur knew because he'd never felt more cherished.  Eames's big body, so powerful and thunderous in a fight, moved nimbly over his.  Every rippling muscle was tightened and honed in on Arthur, every inch of Eames's focus on minute details was watching his face as he pushed into him, one centimeter at a time, with seemingly infinite control until Arthur thought he might go mad.  

Arthur wrapped his legs around Eames, hooking them at the ankle and pulling Eames in just that little bit more.  He buried his face in the crook of Eames's neck, sucking little nips into his sweaty skin.  Eames rested his forehead on Arthur's shoulder and breathed for a second before he started to move.  Tiny rocking motions at first, searching for that perfect angle and when Arthur gasped and his toes curled, he knew he'd found it.  He stroked into Arthur confidently, his thighs flexing, letting the mattress take their weight, and Arthur fell apart.  He moved slowly, so slowly, like his body was checking with Arthur's body, making sure, asking a question.

"Yes," Arthur babbled, "yes, yes, yes, Eames.  Always you.  Always yes."  

It wasn't the frantic, headboard thumping sex they'd had before.  It was deliberate and attentive, and so when Arthur's orgasm crashed over him he didn't have a chance to warn Eames before he came untouched, waves of pleasure rolling over him and over him like they'd never stop.  Eames's answering guttural groan reverberated around the room as he emptied himself into Arthur and then clutched him to him.  Their breaths slowed together, trading soft, easy kisses as they came back to life.  When Eames finally moved to clean up, Arthur missed his weight keenly and he asked with his eyes for he wasn't sure what.  Eames wiped them both down, kissing Arthur languidly and then finally falling back onto the bed.  Arthur waited until his muscles worked before rolling and pressing himself against Eames's side, their bodies seeming to fit together even better now than before.  

Arthur lay in the dark, breathing into the quiet.  The gate was still rusted shut, but as they lay there, their legs tangled together, the fan above them lazily circulating air over their naked bodies, his brain shouted the words.

"So, all this stuff with the PASIVs, it's over?" Eames asked softly.

"Mm," Arthur cleared his throat.  "Seems like it.  I'll get up in a bit and run some checks, just to make sure."  Arthur traced tattoos with a finger, dropping kisses on the places where they were marred by a scar, or where he discovered a freckle, or because he couldn't stop himself.  "What should we do with all our free time now that we're not fighting off the whole world?" he asked lightly, trying to shake off the probably one-sided weightiness of the moment.

Eames groaned and stretched, rolling to face him.  "I vote we find a beach somewhere and see if we can convince the world we died."

Arthur knew he was joking and tried to smile, but he felt a stab of concern.  He hadn't thought about the future much beyond the last 24 hours, but Eames and dreamshare had been inexorably linked in his mind.  It was something he hadn't thought about in a while, but he remembered the untethered feeling he'd had in limbo when he finally realized how much he liked his job.  He knew Eames had picked up on his mood when his eyes narrowed and he lifted his head to get a better view of Arthur's face.

"Darling?"

Arthur shook his head and pushed away the unsettled feeling his words had inspired.  Eames was too important and this was too good to complain about something so silly.  Besides, he liked beaches.  He could pretend to be dead for a while.

Eames looked at him knowingly.  "Tell me.  Please, Arthur."

It was his name that did it.  Arthur sighed.  "It's just...we completed inception, Eames.  We're the hottest ticket in dreamshare right now.  I haven't even had a chance to check my contacts, but I bet we could name the job, and the price, and the country, and the accommodations for the rest of our lives.  Dom's at home, I don't have to go with him anywhere, and we could take jobs together.  If you wanted,  I mean," Arthur trailed off.

Eames blinked at him, his face carefully blank.  "That's really what you want?"

Arthur hesitated, but then nodded reluctantly.  "It's just...well, I know we're not talking about it, but when I was in limbo, I didn't do anything with dreamshare and I realized what a big part of me it is.  It's important to me."

At Eames's blank look and heavy silence, Arthur felt a lightning bolt of clarity and the previous troubled feeling dissipated.  He pressed a quick kiss to Eames's lips and gave him a genuine smile.  "But," he kissed him again, "it's not as important as you.  I like beaches.  I could do beaches if that's what you want.  I have to warn you, though, I burn easily.  I'll need someone to rub sunscreen on me constantly" he teased easily.  Arthur knew his priorities.

Instead of the smile he anticipated, Eames frowned.  "Darling, please don't do that.  We can talk about it.  And what you want is important to me.  I hope you'd think that much of me."

Arthur swallowed.  "Yeah.  Yeah, of course."

Eames looked at him fondly.  "Besides, I think it's pretty bloody obvious I'd follow you anywhere."

Arthur's smile was a bit wobbly but perfectly honest.  "We don't have to take any jobs you don't want.  We can pick them together."

Eames smiled back easily.  "Lead on."

* * *

Arthur didn't realize he was scowling at the computer until Eames leaned over the desk to plant a kiss on the twin frown lines between his eyebrows.  It had been late when they'd gotten in, but Arthur hadn't been able to switch off his brain.  He'd watched Eames's features settle softly into sleep until he felt like a creeper, then debated with himself the best way to wriggle out from under Eames's too-warm arm without waking him up.  Luckily, Eames answered that for him by rolling in his sleep and freeing Arthur completely.  For a moment, he'd thought about crawling back under Eames's arm and trying again to fall asleep, but shook himself and got up to do something useful instead.  Apparently he'd been at it for a while.

"What are you trying to kill with your eyes, pet?"  Eames set a mug of coffee next to him and pulled up a chair.

Arthur grunted and swung the screen towards Eames.  He wrapped his hands around the mug gratefully, forcing his shoulders down away from his ears and watched Eames's face.  "Thanks.  What time is it?"

"Early," Eames said vaguely.  He scanned the CCTV footage for a few moments before asking, "What am I looking at, exactly?"

"Here," Arthur rewound the footage a bit and pointed at the top corner of the screen.  Eames could make out the figure of a man from the chest down crossing the street.  His head was conveniently out of the shot, but he was wearing fatigues and a t-shirt and carrying a slim silver case.

"This is three minutes before the explosion, two blocks away."

"That sneaky little bastard.  I wonder where he got that one."  Eames sounded somewhat amused, and far calmer than Arthur felt as he rewound it again and watched Paul walk out of the shot.

"I'm thinking about finding out," Arthur said to his coffee mug.  He waited to hear Eames's reaction, and when Eames didn't say anything, he looked up to see Eames watching him.  Arthur frowned.  "He is fucking around with stuff he doesn't know anything about, and he doesn't need to.  He said no one else wanted the information, why does he need one?"

"Did he ever go under?  Because if he did, he might not need one.  He might just want one."

Arthur hesitated.  "I don't know," he admitted.  He hadn't actually thought of that.  He'd just assumed Paul was going to use it to steal information, or sell it to god-knows-who.  "Still..."

"Darling," Eames started, settling his hand lightly on the back of Arthur's neck.  Arthur felt the storm inside him calm immediately and tried not to read into how he leaned into Eames's touch.  He craved the closeness his casual caresses indicated even as he mentally rolled his eyes at himself.  "I'm not going to tell you to leave it alone because I know you better than that.  But maybe there's no need to hunt him down quite yet, hmm?"

Arthur looked at him with something like shock.  "You're protecting him."  It wasn't a question, and Eames didn't answer it.  "Eames, this is the man that helped people kidnap you and try to extract from you and threw you under the bus when he found out you were a forger.  And you're protecting him from me. For god's sake, why?"

Eames dropped his hand and shrugged.  He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair, his thighs splayed wide.  His posture screamed "nonchalant" so loudly that Arthur immediately tried to listen to the whisper he was trying to cover up.  The forger was trying just a little too hard to pull off "relaxed".  "Let's just say that when I was strapped down and being questioned, I got the distinct impression that he and I were on the same side."

Arthur scowled but didn't miss the way Eames's eyes genuinely crinkled at the corners in response.  "What side might that be?"

"The "let's-keep-the-attention-off-of-Arthur" side."  At Arthur's continued scowl, Eames sighed and continued, "He convinced them that they had the man they needed, that it was not worth their time to go after you and they should just leave you alone.  A sentiment which I wholeheartedly support, by the way."  He tried a lighthearted grin, but Arthur just crossed his arms and waited.  Eames unlaced his hands from behind his head and rubbed his palms on his thighs.  Arthur waited some more.  "All I'm saying, darling, is that I think he should be forgiven for being in love with you because I know how it feels."

Arthur stilled, searching Eames's face.  His 'unconcerned' mask was firmly in place, but it was no match for the way Arthur had been secretly studying Eames for years.  He could see the edges fraying, where Eames looked a bit nervous like he'd said too much.  As the silence stretched, Arthur knew he should say something because he could see Eames was holding his breath, but the problem was that Arthur couldn't seem to formulate words.  He couldn't even formulate thoughts.  Eames had just brought him coffee after an amazing, mind-blowing night in bed, and then said he loved him.  Arthur wanted to get out his die, but he also wanted to throw the damn thing away because Eames was here, and his, and he'd just said he loved him.

Eames shifted uncomfortably.  "Well, anyway," he started, but he didn't get any farther because Arthur launched himself at him, kissing every inch of skin he could reach.  He kissed Eames's eyebrows and cheekbones and temples in between capturing his lips in frantic sips.

"Fuck, take your clothes off," Arthur gasped, already tugging at the hem of his shirt.

Eames groaned against his lips.  "Yes, dear."

* * *

Arthur lifted his head from Eames's shoulder and took in Eames's blissed out, sleepy face.  He studied the curve of his lips, the stubble on his jaw, the faint lines on his forehead, the way his hair furled just slightly over his ears.  He watched his eyelashes dust his cheeks, the slight smile that crooked his mouth, the way his eyebrows raised and one blue eye cracked open when he felt Arthur's gaze on him.

Arthur licked his lips.  "Eames."

"Mmm."  Eames hummed, letting his eyes drift closed again.

"Listen," Arthur began. "I don't say things like this.  In fact, I make it a point to avoid scenarios where this could even be something I would say, but I will never forgive myself if I fuck this up because I didn't say anything.  So, I just..." Arthur closed his eyes.  "I just wanted to tell you..."

"I love you too, darling."

Arthur's eyes snapped open and he met Eames's gaze, warm and smiling and full of adoration.  Arthur's heart felt over-full, a strange strangling sensation in his chest.  He swallowed around the lump in his throat.  He needed Eames to hear this, he needed him to know how much he meant it, even if it was hard for him to say.  He wanted to give this to Eames, wanted him to have this small part of himself that he'd kept tucked away from everyone else, small and breakable and already his.

"You are so important to me," Arthur told him earnestly, holding his gaze so he would know how serious he was.  "I've never felt this way about anyone else, and I don't think I could handle it if you didn't feel the same way.  I want you to have...I want you to know...I..."

"Shh," Eames ran his wide palm over Arthur's side.  "Hush, pet.  I know, ok?  I do."  Eames brushed a kiss over Arthur's forehead and Arthur's eyelids slipped closed.  He let his head rest against Eames's lips before pulling away.

"I love you," Arthur said fiercely.  Eames's answering smile was blinding.

* * *

Arthur woke up stiff and sore, groggy from sleeping the sleep of the exhausted.  He was wrapped up in the comforter like he used to do when he was a kid, and he was disappointed when he realized he was alone in the dingy hotel room.  When he drug himself off the bed, though, he realized there was a Glock on the table, next to a note.  Arthur smiled as he recognized Eames's neat handwriting, "Hope you slept well.  The coast is clear.  Come find me when you wake up, darling."

 

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> Just a heads-up, there is some (author-initiated) discussion of angst in the comments section of this chapter, which is interesting and you're welcome to join in the conversation! But it isn't necessary to enjoy the story, so expand at your own comfort level. 
> 
> Thanks again!


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